Renaissance
by Virginiana
Summary: When a young child goes missing in Hastings, DCS Foyle and his team must use all their wits to find her and bring her safely home. But he finds himself unexpectedly drawn to her mother, a war widow. Will his attraction prove strong enough to pull him out of his shell of grief at last?
1. Chapter 1: A Missing Child

_Author's note: This is a story I wrote back in 2004 and posted on another Internet board. I've been working on a few sequels over the past few months, so have decided to share the first chapter here (slightly revised) in the hopes that some of you will enjoy it enough to ask for more._

 _If I get enough interest in the form of reviews, I'll continue to post the rest (and perhaps the sequel) at the rate of a chapter every day or two. If not, I'll just delete it._

 _._

 **Part One: A Missing Child**  
 **Thursday 6 November 1941**

.

Samantha Stewart looked at the wall clock for the umpteenth time. Six thirty-five. She sighed, peering down the corridor at the office door. Still closed.

At ten minutes to six Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle had handed her two envelopes. "Post these for me, would you, Sam? I need to make a phone call and then you can drive me home. Meet you up front in five minutes."

Learning to wait patiently had been one of Sam's biggest challenges when she was assigned to DCS Foyle as his driver. While she was keenly aware of how hard he worked and of how far his efforts had gone to maintaining public safety on the South Coast during the past two years of war, she still found her own lot tiresome at times. Like this evening, when the promised five minutes had stretched into three-quarters of an hour with no end in sight. She shifted impatiently against the wall where she was leaning. What could be keeping him this time?

Sam was, as usual, more than ready for her tea. She also wanted to get home in good time because she was hoping to receive a telephone call from her boyfriend Andrew this evening. A Spitfire pilot, Andrew was on call day and night and opportunities to speak with him were erratic.

Not that she would have ever pleaded such an argument to her boss – first, because of her dedication to her job and second, because Andrew happened to be Mr Foyle's only son. Sam felt a bit awkward about the romance at times, especially since they had kept it secret from him for the first several months. Even now, over six months after they had come clean, Sam was careful never to presume on the relationship. While she believed that on some level their shared affection for Andrew had drawn her and Foyle closer, they never spoke of it. In fact, they rarely brought up Andrew's name in daily conversation, leaving their working relationship as boss and driver largely unaltered.

Sam took another peek at the clock. Twenty minutes to seven. Rivers, the avuncular duty sergeant, raised his eyebrows at her restiveness and she returned him a rueful smile. Sam-waiting-impatiently-at-the-desk was an old story to both of them, such a frequent occurrence that it wasn't worthy of comment by either.

Her reverie was interrupted by the bang of the front door. A slender dark-haired woman in the green uniform of the Women's Voluntary Services approached the desk. "Excuse me," she said softly to Sergeant Rivers, gloved hands gripping her handbag. "I need help, please. My daughter has gone missing." Her accent was American.

The sergeant raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sam understood why; Americans were scarce beings in England these days. A few months after the war started the U.S. embassy had advised all its citizens to return home, so that for nearly two years now American accents had been conspicuously missing in the Babel of foreign voices that could be heard across Britain. Dutch, French, Belgian, Norwegian, Danish, Polish and countless others had poured into the country, either as refugees from Nazi oppression or as volunteers for His Majesty's forces. But except for a handful of pilots in the RAF's Eagle Squadron Americans had largely disappeared to the safety of home across the Atlantic. Their absence was widely resented, especially as the war dragged on and England's situation grew more desperate.

Sam could tell by Rivers' stiff stance and his tone of voice that he shared this view. "I see," he rumbled. "And what makes you think that, madam?"

The woman's large, expressive eyes were wide with anxiety. "She wasn't at school today when I came to meet her."

"Aye? Perhaps she went home with a friend. No doubt she'll come home for tea. Why don't you go on home? She's probably waiting there for you now."

"She wouldn't do that. I've spoken to all her friends, anyway. I've been searching for three hours. Please, can't you do something? She's only seven -"

Sam cocked her head at this last bit of information. Like the sergeant, she knew that most missing children turned up safely on their own eventually, but seven seemed quite a young age for a child to be out alone, especially after dark.

Rivers regarded the woman dourly for a moment before reaching reluctantly for pen and paper. "Very well, ma'am. I can have the night patrol keep an eye out for her. What is her name?"

The woman's reply was drowned out by Foyle's voice approaching from behind her. "Sam? Let's go." She shot the American woman a final glance as she followed him out the door. _I do hope they find her little girl,_ she thought. _She seems very worried_.

* * *

By next morning Sam had forgotten about the American woman. She and Foyle arrived at the station at their usual time and immediately plunged into the morning routine. Foyle's assistant, Detective Sergeant Paul Milner, had not yet arrived, a rare occurrence. Milner generally made it a point to arrive at work at least a half-hour before his superior so he could check on any overnight business which might require their attention. It was a quarter of an hour later when Milner appeared at Foyle's office door.

"Good morning, sir. Sorry I'm late. Bit of a delay at the Food Office getting my ration book."

"Morning, Milner. Not a problem."

They were interrupted by the appearance of Sam with a cup of tea for her boss. "Good morning, Milner," she said as she set it on the desk. "You look as if you could do with one of these."

"Yes, thanks." He gave her a grateful smile.

"Looks like it was a quiet night," Milner said, flipping through the message slips he'd retrieved from the front desk. "Report of a break-in at a house on Devonshire Road, but the residents scared the thief off before he took anything. Uniform arrested two drunk-and-disorderly down near the harbour about midnight. And a Mrs Neville-West reported her daughter missing last evening. Night patrol reported no sign of her."

"Might have turned up on her own by now. Anybody spoken to the mother this morning?"

"Doesn't look like it. There's not much here, actually." Milner squinted at the brief note he'd found in his box.

"Right. Get on to her and check, will you?"

"Yes, sir." Milner went down the corridor to his own office.

A few minutes later he was back. "The girl hasn't come home, so I told the mother I'd stop by in a little while. She's American, by the way. Oh, thanks, Sam." He accepted a steaming cup from her and sipped it gratefully.

"Was that the woman from last night?" asked Sam, interested as always in everything that happened at the station. "Did they not find her daughter?"

"Nope, still missing," Foyle replied. "You saw her?"

"Yes, sir. She came in to report the little girl missing just before we left."

Foyle's brow furrowed as he tried to remember. "The WVS woman?"

"That's right."

"Did she mention how old she is?"

Milner scanned the scrawled note in his hand. "It doesn't say."

"She's seven," Sam volunteered. "I heard her mother say so."

Milner and Foyle exchanged glances, their concern aroused. A seven-year-old child missing for over twelve hours? Foyle rose to his feet.

"Better get over there," he said.

 _TBC ... if I get enough interest!_


	2. Chapter 2: Katherine

**.**

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 **Part Two: Katherine**

A steady rain was falling as Sam parked the Wolseley in front of 16 Seymour Terrace, a large brick house set back from the street in its own small garden. Ivy grew thickly up the walls, softening the severe Victorian lines and camouflaging the peeling paint on the window frames. When they reached the front door they could see through the glass pane that the interior had been divided into flats. "It's the ground-floor rear," Milner told them, indicating a door opposite the street entrance.

The flat door was opened promptly upon Foyle's knock by the woman Sam had seen the night before. "Are you the police?"

"Yes," said Foyle. "My name is Foyle. This is Sergeant Milner, who telephoned a little while ago, and my driver Miss Stewart."

"Please come in. I'm Katherine Neville-West." She stepped back to admit them.

The woman appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She was petite and slender, with wavy shoulder-length chestnut hair caught loosely back from her face with combs. She was dressed simply in a navy skirt and white blouse and wore no jewellery except a narrow gold wedding band. Dark smudges under her eyes told of a sleepless night and her forehead was creased with worry.

The room they entered was small but comfortable, with a chintz-covered sofa and chairs and wide French windows that opened onto the back garden. A sliver of sea was just visible in the far distance. Foyle's observant eye quickly took in kitchen fittings tucked into an alcove, a small table with three chairs pushed against a wall, a child's doll cradle by the hearth and two large bookcases crammed with books.

At her gestured invitation he and Milner seated themselves on the sofa while Sam hovered unobtrusively in the background. Mrs Neville-West perched nervously on an armchair facing them. "You've no news then?" she asked anxiously. Her voice was soft, the American accent unmistakable.

"I'm afraid not. I think it's best if we start at the beginning. What is your daughter's name?" Beside him, Milner readied his notebook and pencil.

"Cecily. Cecily Neville-West."

"How old is she?"

"Seven last month."

"When did you last see her?"

"Yesterday morning, when I took her to school."

"Which school?"

"St. James's Primary, in Mount Pleasant Road." Foyle nodded. He was familiar with the place, as his own home was only a short distance from it.

"What time was that?"

"Just before nine o'clock."

"Do you always walk her to school?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. And I meet her afterwards."

"But you weren't there yesterday?"

"No, I was delayed. The bus I was taking had a puncture and it took over an hour for another one to arrive. I was nearly three-quarters of an hour late. It's never happened before. I've told Cecily that if ever I'm not there when school ends she should wait for me in the playground, but she wasn't there. And no one had seen her leave. All I found was her schoolbag under a tree." Her hands were clasped tightly together.

"And this bus was coming from … "

"Lympne – the air base. I work in the WVS canteen there."

"Right." He nodded again. The aerodrome lay four or five miles east of Hastings. He knew it well since his son had been stationed there for some months the previous year.

"Could she have gone home with a school friend?" asked Milner.

"I can't think who. I've called everyone. They all say that she was in the schoolyard when they left yesterday. She wouldn't do that anyway, I'm sure."

"Are there any relatives she could have gone to?"

"Only my husband's sister, in Battle, but she hasn't heard from her. And I've rung the hospital twice but they say no child has been brought in."

"What does she look like?"

"Long blonde hair – she wears it in braids. Brown eyes. Small for her age. And she's missing a front tooth."

"American accent?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. Cecily is half-English; she's lived here most of her life. She doesn't have an American accent."

"Right." Foyle was slightly surprised by her tone, which sounded almost defensive. He usually disliked American accents himself, but this woman's voice was so soft and melodious that it wasn't unpleasant to his ears. He re-focused his thoughts on the case. "What was she wearing? School uniform?"

"No, they gave up on the uniform last year due to shortages. She had on a red jumper and a blue plaid kilt."

Foyle noticed a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. Rising, he gestured to it, tacitly asking permission to examine it more closely. "Is this her?"

"Yes. That's about two years old, though."

The picture showed a winsome blonde child clinging to a tall, fair-haired man in Royal Navy uniform – a lieutenant, Foyle noted. He held her easily in one arm, the other arm round his wife. All three were smiling at the camera, the idealised image of a close, loving family. In the background could be glimpsed a harbour teeming with warships.

He replaced the frame carefully. "Have you a more recent photograph?"

"Yes …" she rose and opened a desk drawer. "Here." This one showed the same elfin-faced girl, older now, with her hair in long braids.

Foyle's mind returned to the image of the happy family on the quay. "Have you contacted your husband about Cecily going missing, Mrs Neville-West? Or is he at sea?"

She stiffened and looked away. "No. He's … his destroyer was torpedoed. In July of last year. _HMS Whirlwind."_

Foyle winced inwardly at his _faux pas_. "I'm very sorry," he said softly.

She shook her head slightly, as though to push the painful subject from her mind. "Thank you," she said tightly. "But … about Cecily?"

"Yes. I think we should begin at her school. Have you spoken to anyone there this morning?"

"No, not yet."

"Milner, get over there and see what you can find out, would you? Sam, run him over." He walked his sergeant to the door, where he added in an undertone, "Ring the station and get some men out searching, will you? And have them send a couple of constables down to check the canal." Milner nodded, his face grave.

After the other two had departed Foyle spoke reassuringly to the woman. "I know this is very distressing, Mrs Neville-West, but you mustn't panic. Most missing children turn up on their own within a few hours. Chances are your daughter has gone off with some school friend you don't know."

"But in that case she would have rung me. She knows how to use a telephone. I just know something is terribly wrong!" She rose from her chair and started pacing anxiously.

"Well, has she been upset about anything lately? Could she have run away?"

"No! You don't understand, Mr Foyle. Cecily wouldn't do that. She adored her father, and she was devastated when he …" she broke off, her voice tremulous. "She's clung to me very closely ever since. There's no way she'd just run off, even if something was bothering her - "

Her protest was interrupted by the double ring of the telephone. "Excuse me … Hello?"

After a pause, she caught her breath sharply. " _What_? Where is she?" The colour drained from her face and she caught hold of the bookcase for support.

Foyle was beside her in an instant. Formality forgotten, he put his hand over hers on the receiver and rotated it slightly, leaning his head down close to hers to listen. "… goin' ter cost you five 'undred pounds," he heard a gravelly voice say. "An' no police, if you want ta see her again. Did you ring 'em already?" She glanced at Foyle, only a few inches away, who shook his head.

"N-no," she gasped, her voice shaking.

"Good. You jus' get the money, see? Five 'undred. In five-pound notes."

"What have you done with Cecily? I want to speak to her!"

"Never mind that now. Get the dosh and don't tell nobody about this. I'll ring you back later and tell you where to deliver it. Then we'll see about lettin' the little lass come home." There was a loud _click_ and the line went dead.

They both stood frozen for a startled second before Foyle pried the receiver from her clutching fingers and replaced it on its cradle. His mind was whirling. In over twenty years of police work he'd never been confronted with a crime of this sort. _Bloody hell!_ he thought grimly, looking down at the woman.

Her face had gone chalk white and her eyes wide with shock. She staggered back and dropped into the nearest chair, a hand over her mouth. "Have you got any spirits, Mrs Neville-West?" he asked her.

She looked blank. "Any what?"

"Whisky, brandy. Anything."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "You want a drink?"

"For you." She shook her head stiffly.

Foyle stepped over to the kitchen and filled a glass of water from the tap. "Drink this," he said gently but firmly, wrapping her fingers around it. "I need your help now."

After a few swallows her pallor receded slightly. "Listen to me," he said, dropping into a seat facing her. "I need to know if you recognised that man's voice." She shook her head again, still dazed.

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Nothing familiar about it? The accent? Anything?"

Another shake. "He sounded Cockney, but … no. Nothing familiar." She took another swallow of water, her hand unsteady.

Foyle frowned. "I need to use your phone."

He dialled the station first. Reaching his friend Hugh Reid, superintendent of the uniformed division, he asked him to start trying to trace the ransom call straight away. Then he rang St. James's School. Milner was interviewing some of Cecily's class mates, but luckily Sam was in the outer office. Foyle told her to collect the sergeant and come back to the flat immediately, ringing off before she could pepper him with questions. He hung up and rubbed his forehead, thinking hard. _Who in God's name could have kidnapped a child in this sleepy fishing town?_

While he had been telephoning the woman had disappeared into the adjoining bedroom. She emerged now wearing street clothes, her posture rigid with determination. "What are you doing?" Foyle asked.

"I have to get the money," she said, as if this was obvious.

Foyle was appalled. "Absolutely not. You're not to pay ransom to this man!"

Her chin went up defiantly. "I _have_ to! I'd pay ten times that to ensure my daughter's safety!" Two bright spots of colour were burning in her cheeks.

"But you _won't_ be. Once he knows you're willing to pay, he'll never stop."

She looked at him for a long moment before her shoulders drooped in defeat. Removing her coat and hat, she dropped them on a chair.

The telephone rang again.

She jumped and looked at him in alarm. "It's all right," he told her. "Just stay calm. Tell him you're trying to get the money. I'll have to listen again, I'm afraid."

He could feel her hand shaking under his as she lifted the receiver to her ear. "Hello?" she said unsteadily.

"Katherine!" It was a woman's voice. "Has she come home?"

Feeling the tense form next to him relax, Foyle released her hand and drew away a trifle. "No, no word of her, Sarah."

"Nothing? My God, Katherine, you must be frantic!"

"I'm trying not to panic."

"Are you sure you called all her friends? There's no one you could have missed?"

"I don't think so."

"What about the police? Have they done anything?"

"They're here now, Sarah. Listen, I should ring off. Someone might try to call with news."

"Do you want me to come over?"

She hesitated briefly and Foyle shook his head again. "No, thank you. I don't want you bringing the baby out in this rain. I'm not alone; the police are here, as I said. I promise you I'll call the minute there's any news, all right? Goodbye, Sarah."

"My sister-in-law," she explained softly as she lowered the receiver. She turned to look helplessly at Foyle, the wide brown eyes filled with fear. "What in God's name am I going to do?"

"You're going to let me handle this. Trust me, Katherine. We're going to get her back." They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension between them palpable. Neither of them noticed that he had called her by her Christian name.

"What if you're wrong?" she asked him in a very small voice.

"I'm not," he told her firmly with a confidence he didn't feel. "He won't hurt her as long as he thinks you're willing to pay."

She closed her eyes and he knew she must be thinking of the Lindbergh kidnapping. The American aviator had paid $50,000 in ransom but his infant son had been found murdered. He struggled to find words to reassure her. Before he could think of anything, there was a tap at the door.

He crossed the room to admit his sergeant and his driver. "What's happened, sir?" Milner could tell by his boss' expression that the news wasn't good.

Foyle spoke quietly, hoping the woman wouldn't overhear. "Ransom demand just now. Five hundred pounds."

Milner's jaw dropped. "What? In the post?"

"No, telephone call. Reid's tracing it."

"But … five hundred pounds?" Milner glanced round. Foyle could tell what he was thinking: this modest flat was not the home of someone who could be expected to have that kind of money.

"Yes, I agree. Doesn't make sense. Did you turn up anything at the school?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Well, the chap said he'd ring back and tell her where to deliver the ransom. Our best bet is to try and get him then."

Sam, who had been following this exchange in wide-eyed silence, spoke for the first time. "Is there anything I can do, sir?"

"Yes. See if you can get her to drink some tea." He nodded toward the distraught mother, who was gazing blindly out the French windows at the rainfall, arms wrapped round herself.


	3. Chapter 3: Ransom

**.**

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 **Part Three: Ransom**

It took over two hours to trace the ransom call. Hugh Reid finally reported that it had come from a public phone box in Carlisle Parade near the seafront. The detectives were disappointed; they had hoped to pinpoint the location to an address. Foyle told Sam to drive Milner back to the station to arrange for surveillance of the area in case the follow-up call was placed in the same vicinity. He knew it was unlikely, but for now it was the only lead they had.

He himself chose to stay at the flat so as to be on hand when the second call came. He kept a close eye on the American woman. This bizarre situation had to be a nightmare for her, especially so soon after losing her husband, but she was managing to keep her composure. After Milner and Sam returned from the school she had fallen silent, alternating between pacing anxiously and staring blindly out the window. A number of times in his career Foyle had found his ability to concentrate on a case seriously hampered by outbursts from hysterical relatives, so he was grateful for her self-control. He only hoped that she would be able to maintain it when she had to interact with the kidnapper.

The minutes ticked by as they waited for the promised call. He glanced at his watch – over three hours now. Used to keeping busy, Foyle found himself pacing too, the long wait beginning to tell on his nerves. At one point he found himself scanning the tall bookcases. They loaded with weighty volumes of history, ranging from the Middle Ages through seventeenth century. Other than one shelf filled with children's books, the only works of fiction he could see were literary classics and some poetry. He glanced over at Katherine, mildly surprised. _No novel reading here_ , he thought. _Is she a scholar? Or were these her husband's books?_

She was sitting in profile to him, eyes closed, her chin resting on her hand, the strain she was feeling evident in her features. The stone-cold cup of tea sat next to her, barely touched. He noticed that her lips seemed to be moving slightly. Was she praying? He couldn't be sure.

It was past noon when the telephone rang again. Katherine jumped to her feet, reaching for it, but Foyle put out a restraining hand. "Tell him you have the money and find out how he wants you to deliver it. Nothing else." She gave a tiny nod and he gestured for her to pick up the receiver.

As she lifted it to her ear, he once again bent his head close to hers to listen. Her hand was cold and clammy beneath his; he could feel her drawing in a deep breath. "Hello?"

"'ave you got the money?" the voice growled.

A shudder passed through her. "Yes."

"Bring it to the Sea View Café at 'alf-past four. Take a table at the back. And come alone – no police, if you want to see her again." _Click_.

* * *

The Sea View Café sat at the crest of a hill in Hastings Old Town. Wide windows across the front offered the promised Channel vista while a row of smaller panes down one side overlooked the canal. It was a popular spot for afternoon tea, especially in fine weather. The morning's rain had gradually tapered off but it had left a dense, chilly autumn fog in its wake. The place was less than half-full when Katherine entered and asked for a table at the back.

Milner and Sam were already there, strategically seated in the middle of the tearoom. Sam smiled and chattered, enjoying the sandwiches and tarts and pleased to be helping with an undercover operation, while Milner kept an eye on the door and pretended to answer her. Foyle was watching too, hiding behind the newspaper he was ostensibly reading in a discreet corner, half-obscured by a potted palm.

"We don't know if he has accomplices," Foyle had told her earlier. "If he has, they're sure to be watching you every minute. No matter what, you mustn't look at me or my sergeant. When he comes in, try to find out where she is before you give him the money. Once he's told you, signal us. If at any time you feel as though you're in danger, use the signal and we'll move right in. All right?"

He watched her now from behind his paper as she took her seat. She looked every inch the respectable lady stepping out for afternoon tea in a pretty oatmeal tweed suit and a touch of lipstick, her hair pinned up neatly under her hat. Studying her, however, Foyle could see the tension in her face and the rigid set of her shoulders. He saw her open her handbag to check that the envelope of bank notes he had given her was still there.

She was playing her part well, he observed with relief. He hated involving her in this, but he really didn't have any choice. Any hopes of a breakthrough from the second phone call were dashed when it was traced to another phone box near the Town Hall. This rendezvous was their best chance of catching the kidnapper. He had taken all the precautions he could think of - two plainclothes officers were posted across the street and several uniformed officers were waiting in cars at strategic points a few streets away. He would have preferred more, but this was the most the short-staffed force could muster. And of course there were Milner and himself, mere yards away. He prayed that the arrest would go smoothly.

But his prayer went unanswered. The minutes ticked by, but nothing happened. Foyle could see the woman's increasing agitation as she repeatedly bit her lower lip and fidgeted with her gloves in her lap. But mindful of his instructions, she staunchly avoided glancing in either Milner's direction or his own.

At about ten past five the waitress stopped at her table. Foyle thought she must be asking if she wanted anything, but she merely handed her a folded piece of paper and moved away. He could see Katherine's eyes widen when she unfolded it.

After staring at the note for a long moment, she let it fall to the table and shut her eyes for a few seconds as though summoning her courage. Her hand reached out and pushed her cup and saucer away – the prearranged signal. Then she drew a deep breath, pushed back her chair and walked quickly toward the passageway that led to the powder room at the rear of the café.

Foyle sat frozen with indecision. Where was she going? And what did that note say? If he fetched it off her table he'd surely be spotted by anyone watching. Yet she'd used the signal … realising he had no choice, he crossed the room in a few long steps and snatched it up. The pencilled scrawl read:

 _ **Meet me outside. Back door past the toilets.**_

Christ, she hadn't going out there _alone_ , had she? The plainclothes officers were posted out front, not in the back! He cursed under his breath. Catching Milner's eye, he jerked his head in the direction she had gone and hurried after her.

The short passage led past the toilets and the kitchen and ended at a small door opening onto a narrow alley. It was empty. Foyle looked right and left, trying to guess which way she had gone. Hearing his sergeant's footsteps behind him, he gestured that Milner should search the alley to the left, where it ran behind a row of shops, while he went to the right toward the canal.

One glance out the mouth of the alley and he knew he had his man. The American woman was standing some thirty feet up the towpath, near the lock gates. Facing her was a tall, heavily-built man in a nondescript mac who appeared to be in late middle age. Katherine's back was to him but he could see her putting something in the man's outstretched hand. It had to be the ransom money.

Foyle ducked out of sight, afraid the kidnapper might hurt her if he realised they were being watched. She looked so small and vulnerable next to him, and he knew he was too far away to protect her if the thug took it into his head to lash out. Better to let him put some distance between them before he started pursuit.

A few seconds later he heard her cry out, "No! You _can't_!" He dove out of the alley just in time to see Katherine flinging herself at the man's retreating back. To Foyle's utter astonishment, she shoved him toward the canal with such force that she slipped on the wet pavement and fell to her knees. The man teetered on the edge for a moment before toppling into the chilly water with a splash.

Foyle shouted for back-up as he bolted toward her. Ignoring the strangled bellow from the canal, he bent over the woman. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

"Yes," she gasped. Her hat had slipped to one side and her eyes were huge.

"Did he hurt you?"

"No, no, I'm fine." She let him help her to her feet.

The two plainclothes officers he'd posted in front of the café were pelting up the lane with several uniformed constables rounding the corner behind them. Milner hurried out of the alley. Foyle jerked his head toward the canal and his sergeant nodded and began issuing orders to pull the thrashing man out of the water.

He drew the woman away from the chaos at the canal's edge, feeling a tremor in her arm. Now that he knew she was unharmed he felt a stirring of ire at her recklessness.

"What in God's name possessed you to do that? He might have hurt you!"

"He said … I'd have to pay more money. Another five hundred pounds. I was afraid he'd get away …" Her voice was shaking.

"But you knew we were watching for him!"

"Yes, but there was no one out here! I couldn't just let him go!" She sounded defensive now, as well as upset. "He wouldn't tell me where Cecily is!"

Foyle opened his mouth to argue, then closed it, biting his lip in frustration. Annoyed as he was, he realised that scolding her further was pointless. The indistinct splashes and yells rising from the canal had been replaced by a stream of foul cursing as the hapless man was dragged out. Best to get her away from here. He glanced over and spotted Sam hovering uncertainly in the mouth of the alley, her keen eyes taking in everything that was happening. Beckoning to her, he ordered, "Take her to the car, would you? I'll be there shortly."

"Yes, sir," said his driver quickly, reading his expression. She scooped up Katherine's handbag from the pavement before leading her away.

* * *

When they reached the Wolseley the American woman got in the back seat and slumped dejectedly against the door. Sam turned round in the driver's seat. "What happened?" she demanded, unable to restrain her curiosity any longer.

"He took the money and said I had to pay him another five hundred pounds before he would let Cecily go!" Sam could hear tears in her voice, barely contained.

"How frightful! Well, jolly good thing he fell in the canal." Katherine turned her face away, looking blindly out the window, and made no reply. "Listen, you ought to be relieved. They've arrested him! Everything should be all right now."

" _All right_?" she burst out. "How can it be? We don't know where she is!"

"Oh, I shouldn't worry about that. Mr Foyle will find out. He's very good at getting people to tell him what he wants to know," Sam told her encouragingly.

"I hope you're right," she answered in a husky whisper.

Foyle got in the car, slamming his door rather harder than necessary. "Let's go, Sam," he said curtly.

"Right, sir," answered the girl. She was dying to pepper him with questions but a sideways glance at his grim expression told her she'd do well to hold her tongue. Not another word was spoken on the short drive back to the station.

* * *

Katherine was pacing again, this time in Foyle's office. Once back at the station he had ordered Sam to escort her there and then disappeared in the direction of the cells without another word. She had refused Sam's offer of tea with a tight shake of her head.

It seemed to take forever, but it was actually only about twenty minutes later when Foyle entered the room. He dismissed Sam with a jerk of his head and a murmured order to get the car fuelled up before closing the door behind her. "He talked," he told Katherine. "We know where she is."

She looked at him with eyes that were huge brown pools of terror. "And is she …"

"He says she's all right."

Her shoulders sagged with relief and Foyle felt his annoyance melt away. Yes, she had been heedless of her own safety, but how could he fault her for that? Wouldn't any good mother put her child's well-being ahead of her own? If anything, he should be angry with himself for not thinking to post someone behind the café as well as in front.

"His name is Perkins, by the way. Albert Perkins. Mean anything to you?"

She shook her head.

"Did you recognise him?"

"No … should I have?"

"He's the janitor at her school."

"Really? I don't think I've ever seen him before."

"What exactly did he say to you?"

"He just asked for the money. I told him I wanted to know where Cecily was first but he said I wasn't the one should be making demands. After I gave it to him he told me it was going to cost me another five hundred to set her free! Yes, I know, it's exactly what you said he'd do."

"Was that all?"

"He said I should go home and he would ring me tomorrow. Then he started to walk away …"

"And you pushed him?"

She nodded.

He sighed. "Well, it's all over, anyway," he told her more gently. "We're going to fetch her now."

"May I come with you?"

"Nnnnno. Not a good idea. Why don't you go home? Might take a while."

"I'd rather stay here, Mr Foyle, if that's all right. I don't think I can bear waiting alone in the flat."

"Of course, if you'd prefer. Use this office if you like."

"Thank you."

He started for the door. "Mr Foyle?" she said suddenly.

"Yes?"

Her dark eyes were shining with unshed tears. "Please bring her home safely. Please!"

Reaching for his hat, he paused to give her a reassuring nod before walking out the door.


	4. Chapter 4: Kittens and Gratitude

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 **Part Four: Kittens and Gratitude  
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Foyle stared unseeing out the windscreen as they drove north out of Hastings. He was thinking back on his interview with Perkins, the kidnapper. It hadn't been very difficult to get the man to talk; any resistance on his part had been seriously undermined by the shock of being pitched headlong into the canal by a mere slip of a woman. The outraged expression on his face when they hauled him out was something the DCS wouldn't soon forget. And Foyle couldn't blame him – who would have thought she'd have the nerve?

At any rate, the interrogation had been one of the easier ones of Foyle's career. The dripping, shivering Perkins had protested his innocence for only a few minutes, capitulating as soon as Milner had extracted the sodden envelope of bank notes from his inner coat pocket. He had confessed to the kidnapping and told them that they would find the child unharmed at a house on the outskirts of London.

"Sir?" Sam broke into his thoughts. "Do you think we'll find her all right?"

"I expect so," he replied. "He claims he left her in the care of his widowed aunt up in Croydon. It's not likely she'll have come to any harm with an old lady."

"An old lady! But that would make her an accomplice, wouldn't it?"

"Not necessarily," replied Milner from the back seat. "He says he told her that the girl's mother had been taken ill and she needed someone to look after her for a day or two. She can't be held responsible if she knew nothing about the abduction."

"But wouldn't the girl have told her the truth?"

"Not if she didn't know herself. He works at her school, you see, so it's likely she knew him. Apparently he lured her away with the same story."

"What a dreadful thing to do!"

"Yes, but he was fairly inept about it," put in Foyle. "He doesn't seem to have planned this business very well. He claims to have acted alone and I strongly suspect the whole thing was spontaneous. We haven't had a chance to check his criminal record, but I daresay he hasn't tried anything like this before."

"Well, it didn't take you very long to get a confession out of him," said Sam.

"Nnnno," said Foyle.

"I think that ducking rather took the wind out of his sails," added Milner. "There wasn't much fight left in him. I meant to ask - did you throw him in on purpose, sir, or was it an accident?"

"Can't take the credit, Milner," he replied, a trifle reluctantly. "The, uh, mother was responsible for that."

" _What_?" said Milner and Sam in unison.

"Afraid so. I was still thirty feet away."

"You mean she pushed him in?" asked Milner. "She can't weight eight stone!"

"Yup."

"Well, jolly good for her!" cried Sam. "He deserved it, the brute!" Glancing sideways, she noticed Foyle's frown and subsided hastily.

* * *

Darkness had fallen when they reached the Croydon address Perkins had given them. It belonged to a run-down terraced house on a decrepit street. "Wait here," Foyle told Sam as he and Milner alighted from the car.

They picked their way carefully up the front walk in the blackout darkness. There was no answer to the first knock, nor to the second. The two men exchanged worried glances, then Foyle knock again, still louder. After a minute, to his immense relief, he heard footsteps within.

"Who's there?" called a quavering voice.

"Police," Foyle called back.

"Police? What do you want?" They could hear fumbling with the lock and the door swung open a crack. A rheumy pair of eyes peered up at them before the figure stepped back and let them enter.

After the door had swung shut, they heard a click as the old woman switched on the light. Foyle's nose detected a strange odour, an unpleasant combination of sour milk, pungent liniment and too many cats living in a small space. "What do you want?" repeated the woman querulously. She was white-haired and bent, at least seventy-five by Foyle's estimate.

"Mrs Moffett?"

"Who wants to know?"

"My name is Foyle and this is Sergeant Milner. Hastings police. We're sorry to disturb you so late but we're looking for a missing child, a seven-year-old girl called Cecily Neville-West. We were told she was here."

"Little girl? Why yes, she's here, but - missing?"

Foyle breathed an inward sigh of relief. "I'm afraid so. Where is she?"

"She's upstairs. You'll have to go up on your own, I can't manage those steps anymore. But I thought her mother - "

Foyle didn't wait to explain, deputising that duty to Milner with a glance. He hurried up the stairs. The first room he looked in was empty, but in the second he could make out a small figure sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"Cecily?" he said softly, and the little girl looked up. Even without the photographs he felt sure he would have recognised her. Her large brown eyes were a replica of her mother's.

"Who are you?" she said.

"My name is Mr Foyle. Your mother sent me. I've come to take you home." He took a few steps into the dimly lit room and saw that she was cradling a kitten in her lap.

"But … Mummy's sick." She sounded wary.

"No, she's not."

"Mr Perkins told me she was. He said she's in hospital. What's wrong with her? He wouldn't tell me." She looked down and started stroking the curled-up ball of fur, clearly reluctant to trust him.

"Nothing is wrong with your mother, Cecily, except that she's very worried about you. She asked me to find you."

"Then why did Mr Perkins say she was sick?"

"He … made a mistake. I promise you, your mother is fine. If she had got sick, she would have let you stay with someone you know, like your Aunt Sarah, wouldn't she? She wouldn't send you all this way with a stranger. Isn't that right?"

The child looked up at him then, one hand still petting the kitten. "How do you know about my Aunt Sarah?" she asked cautiously.

"Your mother told me."

"I don't understand why Mr Perkins said I had to stay here. I don't like it much. It smells funny, and Mrs Moffett says she's too old to cook. All she has is bread and jam. But I love the kittens. I've been playing with them all day."

"I know this has been very confusing for you, Cecily, but I promise you I'll take you straight to your mother. You can trust me. I'm a policeman. Don't you want to go home?"

The big dark eyes gave him another searching look. "Yes," she said. "But may I take a kitten? Mrs Moffett won't mind. She says she has too many already."

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Better not, I think. Such small kittens need to be with their mothers."

She gave a resigned nod and got to her feet, depositing the scrap of fur gently in a basket with the rest of the litter. In the brighter light from the hallway, Foyle scrutinised her carefully for signs of injury or mistreatment. Her clothes were rumpled and her long hair tangled untidily about her face but she appeared unharmed.

He held out his hand to her encouragingly. "Ready to go then?" he said, smiling kindly. She nodded and let him take her hand and lead her downstairs.

" … can't understand the mistake, but I'm glad the mother's on the mend …" the elderly woman was saying to Milner. "I'm too old to be looking after children. I told Bert so, but he wouldn't heed me. That boy never listens."

"Thank you very much, Mrs Moffett," Milner replied, easing toward the door behind Foyle. "We're sorry to have disturbed you. You won't be troubled again."

After the door had closed behind them, Foyle said, "Not much point in bringing her in for questioning, then?"

"I don't think so, sir," Milner replied as they made their way back to the car. "She seemed pretty confused, even after I explained. I'm sure she didn't know anything. She said she hadn't seen him in over a year until yesterday."

"Is she all right, sir?" Sam asked as they approached the Wolseley.

"Seems to be," Foyle answered.

Milner held the back door open for the child. "Would you like to ride back here with me?"

Cecily froze, staring warily up at the tall stranger. The little hand tightened in Foyle's.

"It's all right. This is Sergeant Milner. He's a policeman too. And this is my driver, Miss Stewart." When she still didn't move, he took a firmer grip on her. "Well, I'll sit in back with you, then. All right?" He guided her into the car and slid in next to her, exchanging glances with his sergeant. Milner got in front.

* * *

Cecily fell asleep before they were halfway back to Hastings. Her body slumped over gradually until her head rested against his side, her long hair spilling across his lap. _Little wonder_ , thought Foyle, glancing at his wristwatch. It was past nine o'clock. He put an arm over her to steady her against the motion of the car. When at last they parked at the station, he shook her gently by the shoulder.

"Cecily? We're here," he told her quietly. She sat up sleepily and studied him closely for a long moment, as though trying to decide all over again whether or not she should trust him. He opened his door and got out, reaching a hand toward her. "Come now. Your mother is waiting for you."

Slowly the little girl slid across the seat toward him. He took her hand to help her climb out of the car and led her into the building.

Foyle guided her across the lobby and pulled open one of the double doors that led back to the office wing. Katherine was at the end of the corridor, silhouetted in the doorway to his office.

"Mummy!" Cecily shrieked. Dropping his hand, she flew down the passage and into her mother's arms. Katherine scooped her up, gasping, "Oh, Cecily, sweetheart…" They clung to each other, the woman's soothing murmur blending with the girl's sobs.

Foyle hung back, reluctant to intrude on such an emotional reunion. Glancing behind him, he saw Milner and Sam looking tired but pleased at the happy outcome. "Well done, both of you," he told them quietly. "Milner, why don't you get off home now? It's late."

"I think I'll do that. See you tomorrow, sir."

"Shall I run you home, sir?" asked Sam.

"Er, yes, in a moment. Thought we might offer them a lift. Look, you were planning to go home for the weekend, weren't you? Have you missed your train?"

"I think so, but it doesn't matter. I can get the first one in the morning."

"Mr Foyle?" Katherine had materialised at his elbow, still holding the child in her arms. "She says someone told her I was in hospital. What is she talking about?"

He looked at her, shifting his glance to the girl. "Later, perhaps. Why don't you let us run you home now?"

Her eyes told him she understood. "All right," she agreed softly.

In the short ride to Seymour Terrace Cecily fell asleep again. When Sam drew to a stop in front of the house, Katherine leaned forward from the back seat. "Thank you so much. For everything. I don't know what I would have done … I'll always be grateful. Good night." She got out of the car, carefully shouldering the sleeping child, and started toward the house.


	5. Chapter 5: A Woman Alone

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 **Part Five: A Woman Alone**

Watching Katherine make her way up the dark pavement with her burden, Foyle felt a sudden urge to help. Perhaps he ought to see her safely inside. A woman alone …

"Look, Sam," he said quickly, "You should get home too. It's been a long day. I'll walk from here; it's not far. See you Monday. Enjoy your weekend." He got quickly out of the car, giving his startled driver time for no more than a hasty "Goodnight, sir," before he closed the door.

When he joined her in the blackout darkness at the door Katherine was fumbling awkwardly in her handbag for her key. "Let me help," he offered softly, gesturing to the sleeping form.

After shooting him a startled glance, Katherine allowed him to lift the limp weight from her arms. The child sighed and murmured something unintelligible before slipping her arms up around his neck and nestling her head on his shoulder. As he held the small warm body and breathed in her delicate, little-girl scent, he found himself thinking nostalgically of how he used to carry Andrew like this when he was small.

The blackout curtains hadn't been drawn, so the little flat was flooded with moonlight. Katherine led him into the adjoining bedroom where she quickly turned down one of the beds. He lowered Cecily gently onto it and her mother slipped off her shoes, placed a rag doll in her arms and pulled up the covers. She bent to kiss the sleeping child before following him from the room.

She closed the bedroom door behind them silently. Foyle expected her to draw the blackout curtains and turn on a light, but she didn't. Instead, she leaned back against the door and pressed her hands to her face. It wasn't until he heard the first hitching breaths that he realised she was crying.

 _Hardly surprising_ , he thought. She'd kept her composure during the entire ordeal; it was only to be expected that she would break down now it was over. Foyle was naturally reticent with overt displays of emotion, but his years with the police had taught him how to deal with tearful women. Wordlessly he took her gently by the elbow and steered her to the sofa. Then he closed the drapes, lit a lamp and sat down to wait for her tears to subside.

It didn't take long. When she lifted her head, he proffered his handkerchief. "Better?" he asked softly.

She mopped her face. "Yes, thank you. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go to pieces like that."

"Quite understandable."

"It's just … Cecily is all the family I have now. I don't know what I would have done if anything had happened to her. She's … she's my reason for getting up in the morning. Sometimes, I think, my only reason for living."

Foyle felt an unexpected stirring of empathy. Her words were an exact echo of how he'd felt about Andrew after Rosalind's death. Andrew had been thirteen. He cleared his throat a little uncomfortably. "Well, she's safely home now. No harm came to her."

"Please tell me where you found her!"

"In Croydon, south of London. Perkins left her there with an elderly woman, his aunt in fact. He told her that Cecily needed someone to care for her while her mother was in hospital. She had no idea that she'd been kidnapped."

"And this old woman … she treated her well?"

"As far as I can tell. She appeared to be all right when we found her, except for being worried about you. Perkins told her that you had been taken ill and that he was going to take her to visit you in hospital. That's how he lured her away."

"Did she seem frightened?"

"Not at all. She was playing with a litter of kittens when we arrived. Seemed to be quite taken with them."

"Kittens?" To his surprise, she gave a short, rueful chuckle. "I'm surprised you got her to come with you!" At his quizzical look she explained, "She adores kittens. She's been after me for months to let her have one." She gave her head a little shake, as though to brush the subject from her mind. "I'm sorry, Mr Foyle. You've been so kind. Where are my manners? Would you care for a cup of tea?" Without waiting for an answer she rose, but almost immediately reeled and caught hold of the arm of the sofa for support.

"You all right?" he asked with concern, rising too. She had gone very pale.

"Yes, yes … just a little dizzy. It's been a long day."

His eyes narrowed. "When was the last time you had anything to eat?"

"Ummm … I'm not sure. Yesterday, I think." She pressed a hand to her brow.

He looked at her sternly. "Really, you won't be of any use to Cecily if you're fainting away. Or me, for that matter. I still have some questions I need to ask you." Abandoning his plans for an imminent departure, he added firmly, "I think you should go splash some cold water on your face while I get you something to eat."

Without giving her a chance to protest he went over to the kitchen. She stared after him in surprise before retreating to the bedroom, too drained to protest.

When she emerged a short time later she looked much improved. Her face, now clean of make-up, was faintly pink from the cold water and she had unpinned her hair and brushed it down in loose dark waves. Joining Foyle, who was beating eggs a bowl, she filled the kettle and set it on the cooker. Then she lifted two plates from the dresser.

"You will join me, of course?" she asked, following his glance. "I insist. Unless … is your family expecting you home for dinner?"

Foyle cleared his throat. "No, I live alone."

Her eyes flicked to his face in silent recognition that he must have suffered a loss similar to her own. But she merely said, "Well, it's settled, then," and began slicing bread for toast.

Foyle felt he should decline, but he had a distinct feeling that she would refuse to eat anything unless he agreed. And the smell of food was reminding him that it was long past his usual dinner time.

They sat down to the simple meal together, both trying to mask their shyness at this unexpected ending to the day. Foyle wasn't quite sure how he'd wound up here; he normally made it a rule not to accept even a cup of tea from the people he encountered through his work, preferring to keep things on a professional basis. Even coming back to her flat tonight, he admitted to himself, was uncharacteristic of him. But he _did_ need to speak to her some more about the case, preferably out of the child's hearing, and she had obviously needed help …

Katherine's voice broke in on his thoughts. "This is very good, Mr Foyle."

His mouth twisted in a wry half-smile. "Rather wish my son had heard you say that," he heard himself reply. "He's never very complimentary about my cooking."

"Oh? Is he away at school?"

"What? Oh, no. In the Forces."

"How old is he?"

"Twenty-three."

Her eyebrows rose. "Twenty-three, and he's complaining about your cooking? I do believe I'd point him toward the kitchen and tell him to fend for himself."

"Well, I've tried that, y'know, but then I have to eat _his_ cooking."

She smiled for the first time. "Lesser of two evils?"

"Rather," he replied awkwardly, trying not to stare. He was astonished at how the gentle smile transformed her face, giving her eyes a warm sparkle. _Why, she's lovely_ , he thought. He found himself wondering about her. What had brought her to England? How long had she been living here? And why hadn't she gone back to America after she was widowed? He couldn't think of any way to ask her that wouldn't sound intrusive, though, so he said nothing.

When they had finished Katherine cleared away their plates and brought the teapot to the table. "Thank you very much, Mr Foyle," she said softly, pouring them each a cup. "Well beyond the call of duty, I'm sure. I must admit I don't usually care to be bossed about in such a high-handed fashion, but you were right, I did need to eat. I feel much better. Now what was it you wanted to ask me?"

He dragged his mind back to the case. "What was your husband's profession, Mrs Neville-West?"

She looked surprised. "Stephen? He was an historian. A medievalist."

That explained the books he'd noticed. "Lecturer?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"He wasn't tenured anywhere. He taught at universities all over Britain."

Foyle nodded. This still didn't tell him what he wanted to know, but how to phrase the question in a manner that wouldn't offend her? "I'm sorry to have to ask this, but do either you or your husband come from a wealthy family?"

She looked distinctly taken aback. "Why?"

"I'm trying to work out why Perkins chose your daughter rather than any other child in the school."

"Oh, I see." She sipped her tea. "I've been asking myself the same question all day, Mr Foyle. Unfortunately I have no answer for you. Stephen and I can best be described as … well, as a pair of tweedy academics. I'm no heiress, believe me, and while his family is comfortable, I wouldn't describe them as wealthy."

"I see."

"Unless…" she set her cup back in its saucer.

"Unless?"

"Could he have assumed we were well-off because of our name? The double-barrel, I mean. It does sound, well, rather …"

Foyle's thoughts had been taking the same track. "Rather posh?"

She nodded. "Exactly. And it's downright aristocratic, in fact, if you trace the family tree back far enough. Stephen's great-grandfather was a viscount – or was it his great-great-grandfather? I never can remember. Anyway, Stephen was the third son in his family, his father was a second son, his grandfather a fourth son – the connection is extremely remote, I promise you. Stephen used to say that he had a gentleman's name but not a gentleman's income." She took another sip of tea before she continued.

"But I can't think what could have made Perkins believe that we have that kind of money stashed away, no matter how many hyphens in our surname. I mean, it's only the local primary, after all."

"But weren't you going to the b– " Foyle began, then caught himself.

"Going where?"

Foyle cursed himself for speaking thoughtlessly, but he couldn't think of a tactful way to avoid finishing his sentence. "To the bank?"

"The bank?" Katherine looked confused.

"This morning. You said you were going to get the money."

She looked at him silently for a long moment. Then she set her cup down again and reached for her handbag. Wordlessly she removed a small black velvet cube, opened the lid and set it down in front of him. A large emerald ring sparkled up at him. Then she brought out a second jeweller's box, this one an oblong of white leather containing a single strand of pearls.

"My engagement ring," she said quietly. "It belonged to my husband's grandmother. And my father gave me the pearls when I graduated from college. I don't have any idea what they're worth, but I assume this town has a pawnshop."

Foyle didn't know quite what to say. The ring was stunning, he noted detachedly, the glittering stone at least two carats. His glance shifted to her hands resting on the table. They were practical hands, he thought incongruously, small yet capable-looking, bare of nail varnish and slightly dry about the knuckles. He could imagine them washing dishes or knitting, but he couldn't picture them wearing that showy ring.

He gave his himself a mental shake to try to throw off his bemusement. He had always had an unusually keen eye for detail, but he wasn't sure why his thoughts were wandering in such unlikely directions tonight. He cleared his throat. "I see. Well, I'm … er … glad you didn't have to part with them."

"Well, their value to me is sentimental, of course." Reaching for the teapot, Katherine refilled their cups and passed him the milk jug. "And since we're being candid, may I ask where you got that envelope of money you gave me?"

He was glad to answer, since it moved them away from an uncomfortable topic. "Several years ago I arrested a man who was printing five-pound notes in his garden shed. We seized a large supply as evidence and held onto some in the station safe. It's come in handy on a few occasions, like today."

Her eyebrows had gone up. "Counterfeit? Very clever. But what would you have done if he'd gotten away with it?"

"We weren't going to let that happen. But even if it had, he wouldn't have been too difficult to trace. The ink on those notes runs when it gets wet."

"Oh? Then when he went into the canal …"

"Yyyyes." He gave her a wry smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" She looked torn between amusement and chagrin.

"Don't worry, we have more. And it was worth it, watching him topple in. Quite a shove you gave him. How did you manage it? He's twice your size."

"Hit 'em low, Mr Foyle."

"I'm sorry?"

She laughed, a delightfully smooth, melodious tinkle. "My father was a huge football fan – American football, that is, which is a bit like rugby. Lots of tackling. Anyway, Dad coached a boys' team in our town and he used to say that the way to take down a bigger fellow was to 'hit 'em low, hit 'em hard'." She mimicked her father's gravelly tones, her soft voice slipping into a Southern drawl. "If you'd asked me yesterday I would have sworn I didn't remember that, but I guess it was lodged in my brain somewhere. When Perkins brushed me off all I could think was that I _couldn't_ let him get away. I don't even remember pushing him – just the splash."

"Well, wasn't necessary. We had enough men nearby that he wouldn't have got away. And I can't in good conscience tell you I approve – if you'd failed to knock him in, he might have hurt you. But the expression on his face when we fished him out was priceless."

"I still can't believe I did it, to tell you the truth."

"Well, I'll question him further tomorrow morning. He'll be charged with kidnapping, and since he's already given us a partial confession I hope to get more out of him. I'll certainly ask him why he chose your daughter, but it's helpful to me to have the facts beforehand. Thank you for being so frank. I'm sorry I had to pry."

"That's quite all right. I'm so grateful to have her home … nothing else matters next to that."

"One thing more. I gave Cecily the impression that the whole incident was due to a misunderstanding on Perkins' part. She doesn't realise she was kidnapped and it might be better if she didn't find out. It's up to you, of course, but I thought it might be less …"

"Less frightening ? I'm sure you're right. She's had enough upheaval in her life already without ... That's very thoughtful of you, Mr Foyle, thank you."

"Not at all. If we get a full confession from Perkins, she shouldn't have to give evidence in court. But it will be necessary for me to find out from her exactly what happened. When do you think she might be ready for me to speak with her?"

"Oh, I should think tomorrow would probably be all right. I imagine you want to talk to her while it's still fresh in her mind."

"Yes, that would be best. Why don't I ring you in the morning, then, and see how she's doing?"

"That sounds fine."

Rising from the table, Foyle put on his hat and coat. At the door, she extended her hand. Her fingers felt warm and soft in his. "Thank you again, Mr Foyle," she said in that quiet, melodious voice.

He nodded curtly, a bit embarrassed in the face of her repeated expressions of gratitude. "I'm glad everything turned out all right. Try to get some rest. Good night."

"Good night."


	6. Chapter 6: Next Morning

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 **Part Six: Next Morning**

Late next morning he was back, tapping lightly on the door of the little flat.

He didn't have long to wait. He heard quick, light footsteps and the door was flung open. "Hello, Mr Foyle!" exclaimed Cecily.

"Cecily. Good morning," he replied. He couldn't help smiling down at her, in part because she looked rather comical. Half her hair was neatly braided while the other side tumbled loose. She beamed up at him, bright-eyed and elfin-faced, the empty space where her missing tooth had been only adding to her raffish charm.

"Cecily!" He heard her mother's voice calling, and Katherine appeared behind her, hairbrush in hand. "Please come in, Mr Foyle. I'm sorry, we're nearly ready …"

She took Foyle's hat and coat and hung them up, then guided the child back to the sofa and sat down next to her. "This will just take a minute. Cecily, sit _still,_ sweetheart."

Foyle settled into a chair and watched her gather up and brush the loose hair and braid it deftly. He was pleased to see how much brighter both mother and daughter looked this morning. When he had telephoned earlier Katherine had told him that Cecily had slept quite late and eaten a huge breakfast and that she seemed to be suffering no ill effects from her ordeal. "I haven't asked her about any of it; I thought I should wait until you came so she would only have to go through it once," she'd told him. He hoped the girl would be able to put this whole business behind her without any lasting trauma. Her mother, too.

"All done," Katherine said, securing an elastic around the second braid. "Now, Mr Foyle needs to ask you some questions about what happened while you were … away. All right?"

"All right, Mummy." She wriggled a bit, her short legs sticking straight out in front of her on the sofa.

Foyle cleared his throat. "Cecily, can you tell me what happened when you came out of school on Thursday afternoon?"

"Well, I looked for Mummy and she wasn't there. She's always there when school ends. Where were you, Mummy?" she demanded, turning to her mother.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart! My bus had a flat tyre and it took ages for another one to come." Katherine put an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "But remember, you're supposed to wait for me in the playground, yes?"

"After everyone else went home, I sat by myself on the steps. Mr Perkins came out and asked why I was still there."

"Did you know Mr Perkins?" Foyle asked.

"Of course. He works in the garden and sweeps the corridors."

"I see. What happened next?"

"He went back inside. Then he came back out and said that the hospital had rung and Mummy was sick. He said he'd take me to see her."

"So you went with him?"

"Uh-huh."

"Where did you go?"

"We went on a bus. We kept riding for a long, long time."

"What happened when you got off the bus?"

"I was hungry so we got fish and chips. Then he took me to the cinema."

"The cinema? What picture did you see?" Foyle asked, thinking he could use the information to verify her story.

"Don't know what it was called. It had lots of men on horses and sword fighting in it. Lots of kissing, too. Mummy doesn't take me to see pictures like that."

Foyle glanced at Katherine, whose eyebrows had gone up. "I should say not! What did you think of it, sweetheart?"

"Bit boring, actually," the child admitted. "Especially the kissing parts."

"Rrright," said Foyle, mustering all his professionalism to smother a smile. "And after the picture?"

"He said it was too late to go see Mummy and he took me to Mrs Moffett's."

"And?"

"He said he'd come back and take me to hospital, but he never came."

"And Mrs Moffett? How did she treat you?"

"She was a bit cross. She gave me bread and jam, but she said she was too old to look after me properly. I didn't mind very much 'cause I got to play with the kittens. They were so sweet! There were four of them. The orange tabby was my favourite. I gave them all names. Do you want to hear them?"

"No, Cecily, he does not," said her mother firmly. "Mr Foyle doesn't have time for that. You can tell me all about the kittens later. Now sit up and pay attention, please."

"Yes, Mummy," the girl sighed, fidgeting a little.

"We're nearly done, Cecily," Foyle said hurriedly, seeing the child's patience wearing thin. "Did either Mr Perkins or Mrs Moffett hurt you in any way?"

"No."

"Did they threaten to?"

The little forehead furrowed in puzzlement. "Were you afraid they might hurt you if you didn't do as you were told?" Katherine translated. Cecily shook her head.

"No, I just wanted to come home. I missed you, Mummy."

"I missed you, too, sweetheart. Very much." She pressed a quick kiss on top of her head.

"I got scared when Mr Perkins said you were in hospital. Why did he tell me that?"

"Well, I … I'm not sure. Perhaps he was mistaken. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm not ill, and you're home now, thanks to Mr Foyle."

"Yes," said Cecily. "I was glad when he came and brought me home." She looked straight at Foyle with wide brown eyes full of childish sincerity. "Thank you very much, Mr Foyle."

"A pleasure," replied Foyle, touched.

Cecily seemed to feel that this concluded the conversation. "Can I go outside now, Mummy?" she demanded, jumping to her feet.

"Why, I don't know if – " Katherine hesitated, looking at Foyle. At his nod, she said, "All right, darling, but - wait! Wear a pullover and your wellies. It's wet …" she raised her voice as her daughter disappeared into the bedroom. Seconds later she emerged clad for outdoors, threw open the French window and dashed out into the garden. Her hasty departure was so reminiscent of a youthful Andrew that Foyle couldn't help smiling.

Katherine got up to close the door, which the child had left ajar in her haste. "I'm sorry, Mr Foyle," she said, shaking her head. "Look at her! Like she was fired out of a cannon. I still feel like somebody put me through a wringer. I don't know where she gets her energy."

"Quite all right," said Foyle, coming to stand at the other window. They both watched the little girl scrambling nimbly up the branches of an oak. "I was finished. What she told me matches up pretty well with what we already knew. It's evident that Perkins was working alone, as he claimed. I'll try to check as much of her story as I can, like this film she mentioned, but with Perkins' confession I don't think I'll need to trouble her again."

"Well, the picture shouldn't be difficult," said Katherine, still watching her daughter. "Just look for a swashbuckler. With … lots of kissing." She shot him a sideways glance, and when their eyes met both chuckled softly.

As he put on his hat and coat and bid her goodbye, Foyle was surprised to feel an odd twinge of regret. Pleased as he was that the case had been resolved so satisfactorily, he realised that he wasn't likely to see mother or daughter again. He mulled over his vague sense of disappointment as he crunched across the fallen leaves on the front lawn. What, he wondered, had become of his usual professional detachment? _Oh, well_ , he thought, turning up his coat collar against the autumn chill. _Likely I'll forget about them soon enough._


	7. Chapter 7: Intrigued

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 **Part Seven: Intrigued**

But he didn't about forget the Neville-Wests. Over the next fortnight he found his thoughts repeatedly straying back to the widow and her little daughter. How, he wondered, were they bearing up in the wake of their ordeal? He was surprised at how pleased he felt when a reason arose to contact them again.

It was Milner who unwittingly provided the excuse. Fumbling on the floor of the car for a dropped glove, he had come across a silver necklace under the back seat. Foyle had immediately recognised Katherine and her late husband in the photos inside the locket. The chain, he observed, was broken. No doubt it had happened while she slept on the drive back from Croydon. He tucked it into his pocket and that evening stopped in at a jewellers' and had it repaired.

Next day he left work a little early and had Sam drop him off at the high street near Seymour Terrace, telling her he had an errand to run. He couldn't have said why, but for some reason he didn't want to involve her in this little visit.

"Mr Foyle!" Katherine greeted him, sounding surprised. "Come in! Do sit down, please … " She took his coat and hat and ushered him inside.

The room looked as cosy and inviting as he remembered it. The blackout curtains were drawn against the late autumn twilight and a fire crackled the grate. A savoury smell emanating from the little kitchen added to the inviting ambience.

Foyle settled himself on the chintz sofa. "What can I do for you, Mr Foyle? Did you need to ask Cecily some more questions?"

"No, no. It's about this," he replied, reaching into his inner coat pocket. "My sergeant found it on the floor of my car. I think it may belong to your daughter." He held out the silver locket.

Her eyes widened. "Oh! Yes, indeed! She'll be so pleased … it's been missing for a couple of weeks now. She's been very upset about it. Cecily!" she called in the direction of the bedroom.

The child emerged promptly. "Oh, hello, Mr Foyle!" she greeted him.

"Cecily, look what Mr Foyle found!"

The child gave a delighted squeal. "My locket! Where was it?"

"It had fallen off in my car," Foyle told her. "It only turned up the other day."

"Oh, thank you so much! I was looking and looking for it," she replied, taking it eagerly from his hand and favouring him with a dazzling smile.

"I think you should go put it away right now," advised her mother. "Then finish your maths homework, please. I need to talk to Mr Foyle for a few minutes." The little girl bounced obediently from the room, blonde braids swinging.

Katherine looked at him gratefully. "I can't tell you what this means to her," she said softly when Cecily was out of earshot. "Her father gave her that necklace before he shipped out on his first patrol. She treasures it …"

"Quite all right," said Foyle. "Sorry it didn't turn up sooner."

"It was very kind of you to bring it over like this. I could have come down to the police station to collect it."

"Not a problem, Mrs Neville-West."

"Well, anyway, I'm glad you did. I have been thinking a lot about … what happened. Wondering … did you ever find out why Perkins did it?"

"Money," Foyle told her. "He has a gambling problem and was deeply in debt. He confessed he'd been thinking about abducting a child for some time and when he saw Cecily alone in the schoolyard he decided to take advantage of the situation. He'd have done the same to any other child, given the opportunity. I'm sure he didn't have any intention of harming her. It was a clumsy, ill-conceived crime by a desperate man and I can promise you he won't have any opportunity to try it again. He's going to prison for a very long time."

"Thank God for that," Katherine said softly, in such a fervent tone that his concern was aroused.

"How are the two of you bearing up? I hope this whole business hasn't been too disturbing for you."

"Well, Cecily seems fine during the day, but she's had a few nightmares. She's started creeping in to bed with me in the middle of the night again. She did it a lot right after her father died, but she had pretty much stopped until recently."

"And you?"

Katherine gave a half-hearted shrug which told him only too well how badly the incident had shaken her. "I'm … all right, I suppose …."

She broke off as her daughter reappeared. "I finished my maths, Mummy." Coming to her mother's side, she leaned over to whisper something in her ear. Katherine's brief look of surprise was quickly replaced with an approving smile.

"Why yes, darling, you may. That's a very good idea!"

Cecily promptly turned to Foyle. "Mr Foyle, will you stay for dinner with us?"

Foyle was caught off guard by the invitation. "Why, I …" He looked at Katherine.

"We're only having beef stew, Mr Foyle, but there's plenty. You're more than welcome if you don't have other plans."

"Please?" chimed in Cecily.

How could he refuse that eager little face? Besides, did he really want to leave this cosy room and return to his chilly house for another lonely meal?

" ... yes, all right."

Cecily beamed. "Oh, how jolly!" she chirped. Katherine gently tweaked her daughter's braid.

"Very good. But, sweetheart, you really ought to invite Mr Foyle _to_ dinner, not _for_ dinner. Otherwise he might think he's on the menu, you know." Cecily giggled. To Foyle she added, "It's nearly ready."

"This is very kind of you, Mrs Neville-West."

"On the contrary, the pleasure is ours. And please, won't you call me Katherine? Neville-West is such a mouthful."

His heart warmed. "Very well. Make it Christopher, then."

She smiled at him, that same lovely smile that lit up her whole face. "Please make yourself at home, Christopher. I just need a few minutes. Cecily, will you lay the table, please?"

Foyle leaned back on the comfortable sofa cushions and watched Katherine moving quietly about the kitchen alcove serving up the meal. Her cherry-red knit dress, he couldn't help noticing, clung to the curves of her figure in a most pleasing manner. With an effort he dragged his attention to Cecily, who was scattering cutlery and napkins haphazardly and chattering away in a manner that reminded him more than a little of his driver, Sam, in a talkative mood.

In no time at all they were taking their seats at the little table. Cecily, he noticed with amusement, climbed atop a well-worn copy of _The Decline and Fall of The Roman Empire_ to boost her height. After saying a simple grace Katherine ladled out the stew, which proved to be very tasty despite the shortage of meat, and passed bread and margarine.

"You know, I've just realised something," Katherine remarked as they picked up their spoons. "In America, today is Thanksgiving."

"Is it?" said Christopher.

"What's Thanksgiving?" Cecily chimed in.

"Don't you remember, dear? It's an American holiday when family and friends gather and give thanks for all their blessings."

"Is that when people eat turkey?"

"That's right. When I was growing up we always went to my grandparents' house in the country for Thanksgiving, and we always had turkey _and_ ham, sometimes venison too. You never saw so much food in your life. The table would be groaning with dishes. But then, there were always at least twenty people there. Sometimes as many as thirty."

"Quite a gathering," said Christopher. "Where was this?"

"Rural Virginia. My father came from the Blue Ridge mountains."

"Is that where you come from?"

"No. I grew up in Virginia too, but in a small town near Washington, D.C. But we always visited my father's people two or three times a year."

"What's venison, Mummy?" asked Cecily.

"Deer meat."

"Ugh!" She made a face.

"Well, it was never one of my favourites," her mother admitted. "But we had mashed potatoes and dressing and creamed corn and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie … But the best part wasn't the food. I loved seeing all my cousins. We children had a wonderful time."

"Were there lots of children?"

"Dozens. Or at least, it seemed like it. And every year, during dinner, we would go round the table and each person would name one thing he or she was thankful for."

"Why?"

"Because it helped everyone to stop and think of how many blessings they had to be grateful for in their lives."

"That's nice," said Cecily thoughtfully. "Does everyone in America do that on Thanksgiving?"

"I don't think so, but we always did."

"Can we do it? Right now?"

"Of course, if you like. And if Mr Foyle doesn't mind."

"Not at all," said Christopher. "A fine custom."

"You should go first, Mr Foyle, since you're the guest," said Cecily, scrupulously minding her manners.

Christopher nodded and rubbed his chin, considering. His first thought, naturally, was how grateful he was for Andrew's continued safety after over a year on active service. But, disinclined to mention something so personal, he searched his mind for something else.

"I'm thankful that the Blitz is over," he said. "Not nearly as many bombs as last year." Since the Soviet Union had entered the war back in June, the Luftwaffe had turned much of its attention to fighting in Eastern Europe.

"Indeed, yes," agreed Katherine. "I'm grateful for that, too."

"My turn now?" asked Cecily.

"Yes. What are you thankful for?"

The child pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Well, I _would_ be thankful for a kitten, if I had one," she said, eyeing her mother hopefully. "I would be _very, very_ thankful and I would take very good care of it and …" she broke off at the expression on her mother's face.

" _Cecily Margaret_ ," said Katherine, setting down her spoon and gazing sternly at her daughter, "you know perfectly well that the purpose of this is _not_ to try to wheedle something you want. Besides, we've talked about this before. When you're older, perhaps."

"Yes, Mummy," said the child, looking disappointed.

"So have you anything else you're thankful for?"

"Well …" Cecily's brow furrowed. Then she brightened. "I'm thankful about losing my tooth. I can whistle through the hole. Nobody else in my form can do that! And the other one's getting one's loose now, too, so I should be able to whistle even louder soon." She looked very pleased with herself. Foyle was unable to contain his smile. "Your turn, Mummy."

"Well, I'm very thankful … to have you safely home with me, Cecily." Her glance shifted to Christopher and their eyes met and held for a long moment.

The little girl's gaze darted from one adult to the other as she sensed the unspoken communication between them. "Have you got any children, Mr Foyle?" Cecily asked, shattering the silence.

"Yes, I do," he replied after a pause, turning his attention to her. "I have a son. He's much older than you, though."

"How old?"

"He's grown. He's twenty-three."

"Oh," said the little girl dismissively. "Well, he's _quite_ old then, isn't he?"

"Well - " Christopher broke off, imagining Andrew's reaction to this casual statement. He glanced back at Katherine, and when their eyes met she broke into a soft melodious laugh. He couldn't suppress his own chuckle.

* * *

When the meal was finished Katherine cleared the table swiftly, refusing his help with a quick shake of her head. "Please make yourself comfortable. This won't take a moment. But if you wouldn't mind poking up the fire, Christopher?"

He did so, adding a fresh log, and soon had it blazing cheerfully. Christopher and Katherine settled themselves in the comfortable chairs and enjoyed a cup of tea while Cecily sprawled on the hearthrug at their feet. They talked easily, rambling from events in Hastings and the South Coast to the latest war news. Katherine was much given to drawing historical parallels to current events – "an historian's weakness, I'm afraid" – and he found her comments unusually thoughtful. She asked him a number of perceptive questions about the last war, and he couldn't help being impressed with her intelligence.

After a time Cecily climbed into her mother's lap and curled up contentedly, only half-listening to the adult conversation. Katherine loosened her braids and began unconsciously stroking her hair, which glowed golden in the firelight. Christopher could see that the child was growing sleepy but he did not remark upon it, so stimulating was the conversation. They talked for quite a long while before Katherine noticed the time.

"Oh, dear! It's nearly half-past eight. You should be in bed, sweetheart. Say goodnight to Mr Foyle, now, and scamper! Pyjamas, teeth and hair. Off you go now! I'll be in to kiss you in a minute."

After she had disappeared into the bedroom, Christopher rose. "I ought to be going now," he said, sorry to see the evening end but not wanting to overstay his welcome. "Thank you for dinner, Katherine. It was delicious. Very enjoyable."

As she walked him to the door, he was struck by the conviction that he didn't want to let this woman slip out of his life. And if he didn't speak now, he knew he wasn't likely to get another opportunity. At the door he summoned his courage and turned to her, hat in hand.

"I was wondering … er … that is, if you'd like to … have dinner with me, sometime?" _Bloody hell,_ he thought, _I sound like a spotty-faced schoolboy …_

Katherine, unable to hide her surprise, let her eyes drop to the carpet. "Why, I … I …" Christopher braced himself for a polite refusal, inwardly berating himself for his inept approach. After a pause, she raised her head and looked him in the eye, her cheeks noticeably pinker. "Yes, I … I'd like that, Christopher."

His heart leapt. "Umm … Saturday night, perhaps?" He fidgeted with his hat.

Her blush deepened. "That would be fine."

"Seven o'clock?"

"Yes."

He gave a relieved nod, stepping out the door and putting on his hat. "Saturday at seven, then."

* * *

The pleasure of the cosy family evening lingered with Christopher all the next day. It had been years since he had spent much time around a child and he had found Cecily to be an unexpected delight. She was such a winsome little girl that he couldn't help feeling drawn to her. And she seemed to like him too. Funny thing. Children didn't usually warm to him so quickly. He knew could be brusque at times – could that be why? He didn't know, but whatever it was it didn't seem to put Cecily off. It had, after all, been _her_ idea to ask him to stay to dinner.

His heart softened as he remembered the feel of her little hand clinging trustingly to his when he'd taken her from Mrs Moffett's house, and how sweetly she'd thanked him for bringing her home. Without being prompted, either. Her mother was doing a good job instilling manners in her.

He had very much enjoyed the glimpses he'd had of mother and daughter together. There was a tenderness between them that he found very appealing. Was it Katherine's more open American manner that made her so openly affectionate with her daughter? Or was she simply lavishing her with all the love that she would otherwise have shared with her husband? Whatever the reason, it certainly didn't seem to have done Cecily any harm. Despite the tragic loss of her father she seemed to be a happy and secure child. And the atmosphere in the little flat was so warm and welcoming. Foyle could vaguely remember a time when his own house had possessed the same sort of cosiness, back when Andrew was small and Rosalind was alive. He'd never really been able to put his finger on exactly how his home had changed after her death. It was so long ago now …

And then there was Katherine herself. The prospect of getting to know her better pleased him. He was glad he had summoned the nerve to ask her to dinner; it was the first time in more years than he cared to recall that he'd been tempted to step out with a woman. A purely social engagement, this, nothing to do with police business. Such events had become rarer and rarer in his life in recent years, as his old friends had gradually given up trying to fix him up with eligible spinsters and widows. He had found the matchmaking unbearable; the awkward, almost suffocating feeling of being pursued had been excruciating to a man of his reticent nature. Only the frostiest demeanour had served to discourage the more persistent husband-hunters.

Well, at least he didn't have to worry about anything like that with Katherine. This American woman was clearly still besotted with her late husband. He could tell by how frequently she mentioned his name and by the tone of her voice when she spoke of him. As for himself, Christopher was quite sure she regarded him as nothing more than a kind, somewhat older man who had helped her in a time of trouble. Nevertheless, he was looking forward to Saturday night. Katherine intrigued him, for reasons he couldn't quite put into words.


	8. Chapter 8: Stepping Out

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 **Part Eight: Stepping Out**

 _Saturday 29 November 1941_

Foyle nervously smoothed his hair and straightened the knot in his tie before knocking at the door of the little flat on Seymour Terrace.

He heard the click of high heels approaching and Katherine opened the door. "Good evening, Christopher," she smiled at him. "Do come in. I just need my coat."

His eyes swept admiringly over her as she turned away: dark-blue silk dress, single strand of pearls, hair falling in soft curls around a face subtly brightened with makeup. The mysteries of such feminine transformations always caught him off guard. Too shy to tell her how nice she looked, he helped her slip on the coat and escorted her out the door.

He'd chosen a quiet, rather elegant French restaurant only a short distance from her house, an important consideration since taxis were hard to come by these days and the November evening was chilly. He'd dined there once before, with Andrew and his friend Rex, and had been favourably impressed with both the food and the service.

Perhaps because of the early hour, the restaurant was not crowded. The waiter seated them with a flourish, holding Katherine's chair for her and bowing courteously before moving away.

The pair smiled at each other, slightly nervous, and opened the leather-covered menus. Wartime shortages had limited the selections considerably, so it did not take long for them to make their choices.

"Ready?" Christopher asked her, closing his menu.

She nodded. "The filet mignon, I think."

"And a starter?"

"Hmmm … perhaps the onion soup. It's a bit chilly tonight."

He glanced across the room to catch the waiter's eye, who hurried over to take their order.

"The lady will have the filet mignon, and I'd like the catch of the day. We'll both start with the onion soup, and … a bottle of rosé, please. Yes?" he raised his eyebrows at Katherine, who nodded her assent.

"Very good, sir. Excellent choice. And how would Madame like her filet mignon?"

"I'd like it medium well, thank you …" her voice trailed off. The waiter's obsequious manner abruptly vanished and he stared at her with undisguised contempt for a long moment. Christopher was speechless. Before he could recover from his shock at such unexpected rudeness the man had turned on his heel and marched away.

"What the …" he looked from the waiter's retreating back to Katherine. Two bright spots of colour burned in her cheeks. "What was that about?"

She looked away from him. "I … nothing."

"Nothing! Don't be ridiculous." He was mystified by what had just happened, but was certain that she understood. "Do you know him?"

"No."

"Ever been here before?" 

"Never."

"Then what on earth possessed him?"

She reached for her water glass and took a sip, still not looking at him. "You really have no idea, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, of course you wouldn't. You're so polite to everyone." She set her glass down and raised her eyes to his face. "It was my accent."

"What?"

"He doesn't like Americans, Christopher."

He looked across the room and saw the man conferring with another waiter with agitated gestures. "Oh, surely not …" he trailed off with a frown as he realised that she was probably right. "Has this happened to you before?"

"Well … a few times. Not in restaurants. I rarely dine out, anyway. But - shopkeepers, that sort of thing …"

His eyes widened in disbelief. "Often?"

"No, no, not very often - well, until recently, that is." He looked at her intently, compelling her to go on. "I've been refused service three times in the past month," she admitted reluctantly.

His outrage was written plainly on his face. "That's inexcusable! What did you do?"

"Found another shop." She shrugged. "Not much else I can do, really."

"It's illegal. You should have reported it."

"To whom?"

"The proper authorities! The Ministry of Food, the police …" 

"Christopher. If I walked into your police station and complained do you really think anything would come of it? Don't be naïve. The authorities have much too much to do to concern themselves with something so insignificant." Her attention was diverted by the waiter's approach with a bottle of wine. Guessing his intention, she reached over and laid a restraining hand over his on the snowy tablecloth. "Please don't make a scene."

He remained silent in the face of her obvious embarrassment, not wanting to spoil the evening, but he wasn't about to let such boorish conduct pass. Grasping her hand firmly in his so she couldn't withdraw, he stared coldly at the waiter as he poured the wine. Katherine watched in astonishment as the man cowered, intimidated by his implacable gaze. "Thank you," he growled curtly, and the hapless man scuttled away.

Once he was gone the two looked wordlessly at each other for a long moment. Christopher relaxed his grip. "I'm very sorry," he said softly. "You shouldn't have to put up with that sort of rudeness."

"You've nothing to apologise for, Christopher. Look, it's not something that happens every day. Most people are perfectly courteous. And I can understand it. This country is fighting for its very existence and the United States is sitting over there on other side of the Atlantic dithering about whether they should be doing anything at all to help. Of course the British resent it. _I_ resent it."

"That's nothing to do with you. How can anyone believe that you have any say over America's foreign policy decisions? Total rubbish."

"Yes, but I'm a convenient target for people's frustrations. I'm _here_ , don't you see?"

"Yes, you are. You're _here_ , living with the bombings and the shortages and all the rest of it. You're volunteering with the WVS. You lost your husband to this war, for God's sake!"

"But _he_ doesn't know that, does he?" she replied, nodding in the direction of the waiter. "I'll admit it's crossed my mind once or twice to make a badge that says "British War Widow" and pin it to my hat, but that seems a bit extreme, don't you think?" He scowled, not mollified.

"Don't be too hard on him, Christopher. We don't have any idea what that man has been through. He may have had a son killed in the forces or lost his whole family in a bombing raid. There's no way for us to know, any more than he can know about Stephen. There's tragedy enough to go around in this war."

"That's true enough." He sighed. "It's forbearing of you to look at it that way, Katherine."

She smiled wistfully. "Do you think so? I'm not sure. We all just have to pull together, don't we?"

Christopher suddenly realised that he was still holding her hand. He had only taken it initially to make a point in front of the waiter, but now the contact with her soft fingers was sending a pleasant tingling up his arm. "You sound like an Englishwoman."

"Well, I feel like an Englishwoman! More English than American, certainly, despite this ghastly accent of mine." That made him smile. "I fell in love with this country the first time I set foot here, Christopher. I just felt as though I belonged here."

"Is that why you didn't go home after you lost your husband?"

She nodded. "I already _was_ home, you see. A lot of people advised me to go back to the States. A few even told me that it was criminal of me to risk Cecily's safety by staying. I gave it a lot of thought, but in the end I just couldn't go.

"What was there to go back to, after all? I have no close family left in America. And Stephen's family are all here. They've been good to us, especially since he was killed. Cecily's grown very close to her cousins, and here I know there's someone to look after her if something happened to me. Not to mention that crossing the Atlantic at this point would probably be more dangerous than staying here. After what happened to her father, Cecily gets hysterical at the very idea of getting on board a ship. So for better or worse, here we are."

She glanced down at their clasped hands and her colour rose slightly. Christopher looked down too and discovered that he had been unconsciously caressing her knuckles gently with his thumb. He released it and reached for his wine.

"What shall we drink to?" he asked her.

"To England," she answered, lifting her own glass. Their eyes met for a long moment as the glasses touched with a soft clink.

The spell was broken by the waiter, who placed soup bowls in front of each of them and retreated silently, his face a picture of surliness.

As they dipped their spoons into the soup, Christopher was surprised to see that she was smothering a smile. "What?" he asked her curiously.

" _Him_!" she said in a stage whisper. "Didn't you notice? You've got him scared to look at us. And without uttering a single word! I'm very impressed. Does that daunting glare come naturally, Mr Foyle, or did you have to practise it?"

He couldn't believe it. She was teasing him! He couldn't remember the last time a woman had done that. His lips twitched with amusement. "Took me years to cultivate that. Very useful asset."

"I daresay. I think that girl of yours was quite right."

"Girl?"

"Your driver. You know, with the lovely red hair. I've forgotten her name."

"Ah. Sam. What did she say?"

"She said you were very good at getting people to tell you what you wanted to know."

"When did she say that?"

"Right after you'd arrested Perkins. I was petrified he wouldn't tell us where Cecily was but she said not to worry, that you'd get it out of him. And, of course, you did. Now I know how."

"Ah."

"Would I be right in guessing that Sam has been on the receiving end of that look herself?"

"Sam? No. Well … maybe once or twice. My son, on the other hand … used it quite a bit on him as he was growing up."

Her melodious laughter rippled. "Poor lad."

"Always well deserved, Katherine."

"Is it just the two of you?"

"Yes."

Her gaze met his across the table and he felt a curious tightening in his chest that made it hard to draw breath. Her warm brown eyes seemed to probe his protective shell, finding the well of pain and loneliness that had darkened his life for so long. He felt both discomfited and deeply moved by the silent current of empathy that coursed between them. "How old was he when you lost your wife?" she asked softly.

"Thirteen." His voice was low.

"So you raised him on your own after that."

"Yes."

"That must have been … difficult,"

"Well … in some ways, perhaps. He had to learn to look after himself earlier than most children. I couldn't be there when he came in from school, for instance. He got into his share of scrapes. But he turned out all right in the end, I suppose."

"You said he's in uniform, didn't you? Which service?"

"RAF."

"Does he fly?"

Christopher nodded. "Spitfire."

"Oh!" Katherine's eyes widened. "That must be hard for you. The worrying, I mean."

"Well, yes. But he's doing what has to be done."

"Where's he based?"

"Biggin Hill, at the moment."

"I see so many of these young pilots at Lympne, at the canteen. Of course, we serve everybody there - ground crew, aircrew, WAAF … But I just marvel at the pilots. So young, and they take off day after day … such courage. Some of them don't even look old enough to shave and they've saved their country. It's extraordinary. Sometimes I get a lump in my throat, watching them. You must be so proud of him, Christopher."

Christopher was strongly affected, both by her words and by the sincerity on her face. She'd put into words exactly how he felt about Andrew and his flying. "Y-y-y-e-s," he murmured huskily.

Realising she was on sensitive ground, she tactfully changed the subject. "What was he doing before the war?"

"He was up at Oxford."

"Oh? Which college?"

"Magdalen."

"He's twenty-three, you said? He must have been nearly finished."

"Yes, he was called up with only one term left."

"What was he reading?"

"Maths."

"Not so far from your field, then." He cocked his head, puzzled. "Well, mathematics is all about logic, isn't it? Spotting patterns and anomalies? You must do a lot of that in your work."

"Can't say I ever thought of it that way … nor has my son ever seemed particularly logical. Quite the contrary."

"How did you come to be a police officer?"

"Rather a natural progression in my case. My father was a sergeant. Just assumed I would join too. I went into police training when I left school and came back to the force after I was demobilised at the end of the last war."

"And do you find it a satisfying career?"

He paused, reaching for his wine glass. "Don't think anyone has ever asked me that before, at least not in quite those terms." He sipped thoughtfully. "Yes and no. We see the very worst of human nature in police work, which can be discouraging. But I do derive immense satisfaction from putting bringing lawbreakers to justice. On the other hand, routine police work can seem irrelevant in the middle of a war. I've applied repeatedly for a transfer to something more directly related to the war effort, but without success."

"But surely at least some of your cases must be connected to the war."

"Oh, a great many. We've dealt with fuel racketeering, the black market, ration-book fraud, call-up evaders, deserters, identity-card forgery, looting …"

"Well, all that sounds very relevant to the war effort, Christopher. It certainly seems as if you are doing your bit."

They were interrupted by the return of the waiter. Katherine cast her eyes down uncomfortably as he removed the soup bowls and served the main course. His manner was still sullen but he offered no further insult.

"Have you always lived in Hastings?" she asked, once he had disappeared again.

"Yes."

"How lucky you are. It's a beautiful little town. It must have been a good place to grow up. Do you have family here? Apart from your son, I mean?"

"Not any longer. My parents are gone; had no brothers or sisters. There's an old aunt over in Eastbourne, but that's about it."

"But you must know half the town, since you've lived here all your life."

"Well, there was a time I'd have said so, but the war has changed that. So many people have left and there are so many newcomers here now."

"Like me."

"What made you settle in Hastings?"

"Family, mostly. Stephen's family are all on the South Coast. He grew up near Folkestone. I liked Hastings and I found a good school for Cecily here. I see a lot of Sarah, his sister, in Battle. She has four children and Cecily really enjoys spending time with them. Gives her a taste of real family life, you see. She often sleeps over at weekends if I've taken a night shift at the canteen. She's there tonight, in fact."

"Where did you live before that?"

"In naval quarters in Plymouth. We moved here a few weeks after the _Whirlwind_ was lost."

"And before the war?"

"We were in Pennsylvania. In the States."

"So you came back after the war started?"

"Yes."

"When did you first come to England?"

"In '27."

"That long ago? What brought you here?"

"It's sort of a long story, Christopher."

"I'd like very much to hear it."

She took a sip of wine. "Well, it really begins at Cambridge, I suppose. No, I'd better go further back. When I was very small, my mother developed tuberculosis and she was in and out of sanatoriums for years. It was just Dad and me most of the time. She died when I was ten. But when I was about four he hired a live-in housekeeper, Mrs Oliver, who was English. She's the one who really brought me up.

"She was just wonderful. She'd been a stewardess with Cunard before she came to us. She told me lots of stories, both about her career on the great ocean liners and about England. She was from 'emel 'empstead, in 'ertfordshire" – Christopher smiled at her mimicry of the woman's accent – "and she firmly believed that England was the best place in the world. She taught me to love England years before I ever got here. I'd come home from school and she'd serve me tea and scones when all my friends got milk and cookies. I thought it was very special.

"She was also a big believer in education and always encouraged me to work hard in school. My dad wasn't too interested in my grades, but Mrs Oliver always made a fuss when I got good marks. She'd take me to the library every week and downtown on the streetcar to visit the museums. A lot of her stories were about British history – not always accurate, as I later discovered – but she fostered my interest in the past.

"Thanks to her encouragement I won a scholarship at Wellesley, a very good girls' college in Boston. My father was pleased. He had started a Packard dealership after the war and was coming up in the world. I realised later that he sent me up to college expecting me to catch a rich husband – Harvard isn't far from there, you see, and lots of Wellesley girls wind up marrying Harvard fellows. But not me. I had a wonderful four years and made some marvellous friends, but what I fell in love with was history, especially British history."

Christopher was watching the animation in her face as she spoke. _She has the most beautiful eyes_ , he thought. _What a fascinating woman!_

"While I was away at college, my dad remarried. His new wife was very interested in money and society, Washington society. When I came back home after graduation she and my dad insisted on launching me into the social scene. They were convinced that with the right wardrobe and my dad's money, I could catch a wealthy and influential husband. They even had their eyes on a Congressman's son for a while. I spent a miserable year being pushed from parties to dances to receptions. This was the flapper era, Christopher! It was all bobbed hair and speakeasies and tearing around in automobiles." She shuddered. "I was bored rigid. I couldn't seem to persuade Dad that I wasn't meant for that sort of life. He wanted me to be a society belle and he had a very hard time accepting that, at heart, I was a bluestocking."

Christopher laughed. "Hardly the word I would choose, Katherine."

"Well, perhaps you don't know me well enough. Suffice it to say that after a year I had had quite enough. The whole time they had dragged me around on their stupid social whirl I had been dreaming of Cambridge. My favourite professor at Wellesley had encouraged me to come over and read for a second degree. She was sure I could get a place. Thanks to my dear Mrs Oliver I had wanted to come to England since I was a little girl. I applied in secret and was accepted at Newnham College. I had a hard time convincing Dad to let me go but he finally gave in. I was twenty-two, after all." 

"So you came to England."

"Yes, I finally made it. I so wish Mrs Oliver could have lived to see it."

"Oh, she wasn't …"

"No, she died in the influenza epidemic of 1919, when I was still in high school."

Christopher nodded gravely. "My father died in that epidemic."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Christopher." She gave him a sympathetic glance.

"It's all right. Long time ago. Please go on."

"You're sure I'm not boring you?"

"Not at all. So what happened at Cambridge?"

"Well, I read history for two years, and I met Stephen Neville-West."

"He was studying there?"

"Yes, he was reading for his doctorate in medieval studies at Caius. I met him my first term and we just got closer and closer. By the middle of my second year we both knew that we wanted to be together. But when I wrote and told my father that he'd asked me to marry him, Dad hit the roof."

"Why?"

"Stephen wasn't wealthy. His family is well-connected but not rich, and as the third son in his family he wasn't in line to inherit much. When Dad found out that Stephen's prospects were more or less limited to a don's salary, he forbade the marriage and insisted I come home."

"And did you?"

"Very reluctantly. I couldn't bring myself to defy him but I was determined to change his mind. Since I was an only child, he had pinned all his hopes on me, you see, and I couldn't bear to break his heart. We argued and argued about Stephen but I got nowhere. He was convinced that Stephen only wanted to marry me because my father was wealthy. Dad made a lot of money during the twenties, you see. I knew that was ridiculous, because I'd never told Stephen anything about my dad's financial situation, but he refused to believe it. He also didn't want me to move to England for good. Anyway, about two months after I got home, just when I'd started to believe that I was never going to win him over, everything fell apart."

"What happened?"

"The Crash. I hadn't known it, but the whole time I'd been abroad Dad had been investing more and more. He'd even borrowed money against the business and used it to buy stocks. When the market crashed he lost nearly everything."

"I see."

"He was devastated. He'd worked his whole life, you see, and suddenly it was all gone. Then his wife left to spend the winter in Palm Beach and it looked as if she might not come back. I think that was the final straw. That January he died of a massive heart attack."

"I'm sorry, Katherine. What a tragedy."

"It was. He didn't seem to have anything left to live for. His money was gone, his wife was gone and I had disappointed him too. As for me – it may sound terrible, but his death was a liberation. I grieved for him, of course, but there was nothing to keep me in the States after he was gone. As soon as I wrote to Stephen about what had happened, he came over be with me. Once I'd settled Dad's affairs we came back to England and got married."

"So you got what you wanted after all."

"I did. Oh, there were problems. His parents weren't exactly thrilled to have an American daughter-in-law, and he had trouble finding a permanent teaching post. Times were hard, so universities were reducing their faculties, not hiring new lecturers. We wound up moving almost every year as he went from one temporary post to another - Cardiff, Ipswich, Leeds, Sheffield, Newcastle, even Glasgow for some summer terms. But at least we were together."

"But you went back to America eventually?"

"Yes. It was always meant to be temporary. Stephen felt very strongly that he was failing us by not being able to find a permanent job somewhere. It wasn't due to lack of ability on his part, you understand; he was quite a brilliant scholar, and a good teacher. It was the Depression. He hated the uncertainty and the moving around, and it bothered him a great deal that we weren't able to settle down anywhere, especially after Cecily was born. Finally in the winter of '38 he heard of a vacancy for a medievalist at a university in Pennsylvania. He applied and they took him on straight away. We always planned to come back someday when times were better. We both wanted to bring Cecily up in England, not in America."

"What was it like for you going back after so long?"

"Very strange. It was familiar and yet alien at the same time. I didn't fit in. I missed England, and of course Stephen did, too."

"But you came back when the war broke out."

"Yes. Stephen gave in his notice the day after Hitler invaded Poland."

"Surely he wasn't expecting to be called up that quickly?"

"Oh, no. He volunteered. He'd been in the Navy for a few years when he was younger, you see. His family are all Navy – his grandfather in the Boer War, his father in the last war and now both his brothers and a nephew. It was inconceivable that he wouldn't come home and join up."

"But you and Cecily could have stayed in America, couldn't you?"

"I never even considered it, war or no war. Of course we had to come with him. Stephen was coming home to fight. And England is home."

By now they were so engrossed in their conversation that they barely noticed that the waiter had cleared away their plates. Christopher had poured the last of the wine into their glasses and they sat nursing it as Katherine finished her tale. Gazing across the table at her in the soft light, Christopher felt a rush of tenderness.

"An extraordinary story, Katherine."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't know about that. But you're a very good listener, Christopher." He looked into her deep brown eyes and thought again how beautiful they were. _Mesmerising eyes. And the shape of her lips …_ he caught himself.

He broke his gaze, afraid she could read his unruly thoughts. "Would you … care for dessert?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

"Coffee?"

"No. I've never developed a taste for it."

His eyebrows shot up. "An American who doesn't drink coffee?"

She grinned. "Oh, stop! Thanks to the good Mrs Oliver, I only ever drink tea."

"Well, blessings on Mrs Oliver. Cup of tea?"

"Nothing for me, thank you."

"Shall we go then?"

She nodded. "I'll just slip off to the powder room first."

He stood up when she rose, signalling the waiter for the bill. He took a grim pleasure in leaving only a thruppence tip.

In the restaurant lobby he helped her on with her coat and offered her his arm. She slipped a gloved hand into the crook of his elbow as they started home.

After a few desultory remarks about the cloudy weather and the lack of bombers, they fell into a companionable silence. Christopher fancied he could feel the warmth of her hand even through his coat sleeve. _Remarkable_ , he thought. _I haven't felt this comfortable with any woman since … since Rosalind._

The thought startled him _. I need to get hold of myself,_ he told himself sternly. _I'm feeling protective of her because of that oaf of a waiter._ But he knew it was more than that. _Or maybe it's because she's widowed and raising a child alone, just as I did._ But he knew deep down that this didn't account for the tenderness he was feeling, either.

 _Well, how about the fact that I've been alone for almost ten years? Too long. She's beautiful, she's intelligent, she's kind … no wonder my feelings are running away with me._

 _Stop it. She's nowhere near ready for a new man in her life. Her husband hasn't been gone two years yet. Go slowly, Christopher, or you'll scare her._

When they reached the door of 16 Seymour Terrace, she turned to face him. "This has been a lovely evening, Christopher. Thank you so much." She gently squeezed one of his hands with her gloved one.

Christopher's heart turned over. "A pleasure," he said softly. "I'd like to see you again, if I may." She nodded, suddenly shy.

He leaned closer, intending to kiss her on the cheek. Almost of their own volition, his lips brushed across hers instead. Mesmerised by their softness, he gently kissed her again, allowing himself to linger for a precious moment.

He drew back reluctantly. "Good night, Katherine," he said, stepping back.

She smiled up at him. "Good night, Christopher."


	9. Chapter 9: Unforeseen Developments

**.**

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 **Part Nine: Unforeseen Developments**

Christopher found his mind straying to Katherine often during the next several days. Sitting in church listening to the sermon next morning he marvelled at the way she had gently drawn him out about things he rarely talked about, like bringing up Andrew alone. Pouring himself a cup of tea at work Tuesday afternoon, he found himself fretting about the anti-American prejudice she was encountering. And on Wednesday, driving in the car, his mind drifted back to the warmth in her eyes, the exquisite sensation of kissing her...

"Sir!" It had taken Sam three tries to get his attention. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Yes, fine. Sorry," he'd mumbled, glad she couldn't guess his thoughts. He felt ridiculously like a lovesick schoolboy. At his age!

At home that evening he steeled his nerves and picked up the telephone.

"Hello?" Hearing her melodious voice sent an absurd thrill through him. Funny how he didn't mind her American accent at all any more …

"Katherine? This is Christopher Foyle."

"Christopher, how nice to hear from you! How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you. You and Cecily all right?"

"Oh, yes. Just tucked her in."

"Good. Wanted to ask you if you'd like to have dinner with me this Saturday."

"Oh! That sounds lovely."

"Shall I come by for you around seven, then?"

"Seven o'clock is fine. I'll be looking forward to it."

"See you then."

He returned the receiver to its cradle and shook his head in wonder. He'd take her to the Carlisle Hotel, he decided. He knew it had a dance floor, and it was a stuffy enough establishment that its musical selections probably wouldn't be too alarmingly modern. Perhaps she would enjoy a bit of dancing after dinner. He knew it was madness, since he hadn't danced in years, but he was willing to risk making a fool of himself for the chance to hold Katherine in his arms in a socially acceptable manner.

* * *

Friday morning, though, his carefully laid plans were torpedoed by the ring of his office telephone. "Yes?" he said with his usual professional gruffness.

"Is this Mr Foyle?"

"Speaking."

"Christopher, it's Katherine Neville-West calling."

"Katherine!" Christopher sat up straight in his chair, thankful that Sam was well out of earshot. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm afraid I have bad news, Christopher. It's about tomorrow night. I've just had a call from the canteen manager at Lympne. Three of the WVS workers have gone down with 'flu and she's begging me to work Saturday night. I didn't feel I could refuse."

"Oh! Well, that's all right, Katherine. We'll do it some other time." Christopher struggled to keep his disappointment out of his voice. "Of course if you're needed there, I understand."

"I'm so sorry, Christopher. I feel very badly about it."

"Not at all. Don't think of it."

"Would it be terribly rude of me to suggest another time? I am free on Sunday evening …"

"Sunday? Excellent suggestion. What time shall I call for you?"

"Would six-thirty be all right? I know that's dreadfully early but I won't have had much sleep the night before and I have to get Cecily off to school next morning."

"Half past six it is. I'll see you then."

He rang off just as Sam entered the office with his morning tea.

* * *

On Sunday morning Christopher returned from church to another surprise. Andrew's RAF cap and tunic were hanging from a peg in the front hall. His son was sprawled in his favourite armchair, reading a newspaper and munching on a slice of toast. "Andrew! Didn't expect to see you home this week-end."

"Hello, Dad. Good to see you. I've got a 48-hour pass. Just got in a little while ago."

His father noticed the bloodshot eyes and unshaven face. "You look like you haven't been to bed."

"I haven't. I flew last night and came down right after on the early train. Thought I'd grab a nap and then we can catch up. I'm taking Sam out tonight. At least, I _hope_ I am. She wasn't home when I tried to ring her just now."

"Saw her at church. She'll probably get home soon." Underneath his calm exterior Christopher was, as always, delighted to see his son. Having Andrew at home meant that he was alive and unhurt and allowed his father to shelve his worries for a day or two. But he sincerely hoped that Sam would be available that evening to distract Andrew. He wasn't yet ready to share his relationship with Katherine with anyone, not even his son.

* * *

Luckily Sam was free that evening. At a quarter to six a freshly rested Andrew dashed out the door to meet her, leaving his father innocently reading a book in the sitting room. The second the door closed, Christopher hurried upstairs to get ready for his own evening out. Best dark-blue suit, crisp white shirt, polished shoes and the light-blue silk tie Sam had given him for Christmas last year. "Just the colour of your eyes, sir!" she had told him airily. He took stock of his appearance in the mirror as he knotted it: medium height, receding hairline, dour countenance, figure still fairly trim (rationing helped there). Still, definitely a man past his prime. He wondered what Katherine saw in him.

When he knocked on her door just past six-thirty he was momentarily struck speechless. She looked stunning in a simple black cocktail dress, sleeveless and close-fitting, with a slim skirt that ended just below her knees. The elegant effect was enhanced by a demurely high neckline, silk stockings, and heeled pumps. Her dark hair was swept up in a twist, her only ornament a pair of antique silver earrings.

"Christopher." She smiled at him. "Good evening. Please come in."

"Katherine. You …" he began, but broke off when he saw an older woman sitting on the sofa, knitting.

"I'm ready. I just need to say goodnight to Cecily," she assured him, and called her daughter's name.

The little girl promptly appeared from the bedroom, clad in dressing gown and nightdress, her mane of blonde hair brushed loose. "Hello, Mr Foyle!" she smiled at him.

"Hello, Cecily." Christopher was struck once again by the child's artless charm. "You look all ready for bed."

"Mummy says I can stay up 'til half past seven."

"That's right, half past seven, but no later, do you hear? School tomorrow. And no wireless."

"Yes, Mummy."

"Goodnight, darling. I'll come kiss you in your bed when I get home." She bent to hug the child. "Sleep well." Glancing over at the older woman, she said, "Thanks again, Mrs Ramsey. I shouldn't be too late."

"Have a lovely time, dear," replied the woman placidly, as Christopher helped Katherine with her coat. She draped an emerald-green scarf round her neck and they departed.

Once outside, Christopher found his voice. "Over here. Taxi's waiting."

She looked at him in surprise. "A taxi? Where are we going?"

"The Carlisle."

He couldn't help feeling proud as he escorted her into the hotel. He thought she was by far the loveliest woman in sight and her pleasure in his company was evident. When they were at last seated at a table in a quiet corner of the dimly lit dining room, he found the courage to give voice to his thoughts. "Katherine. You look beautiful tonight."

"Why thank you, Christopher." She looked both pleased and shy at the compliment. "It was so kind of you to invite me again. I had such a lovely time last Saturday."

"So did I," he told her, feeling his confidence growing.

The meal sped by in a flow of easy conversation. She talked about her childhood in Virginia and told droll stories about her time at Cambridge. He in turn elaborated on his own early years in Hastings and described how his father had taught him to fish. Gradually she led the conversation round to Andrew, the centre of his life, and Christopher found himself recalling incidents he hadn't thought of in years. He even mentioned Rosalind several times, surprised at how little pain her name caused him.

The meal finished, he summoned his courage to ask her if she'd care to dance. She accepted readily, first excusing herself to visit the powder room. When she returned to the table she said, "Do you know, I think I just saw that driver of yours."

He looked up in surprise. "Sam? Where?"

"Out there." She nodded in the direction of the dance floor.

His eyebrows shot up. "Did she speak to you?"

"Oh, she didn't notice me at all. She was dancing with a very handsome young airman and didn't appear to be paying attention to anything else."

"Hmmm," Christopher muttered, frowning. This was a wrinkle he hadn't expected.

"Oh, come now, Christopher," Katherine said with a gently reproving smile. "He seemed like a perfectly respectable young man. Don't believe everything you've heard about pilots. Anyway, you're not her dad, are you?"

He realised there was no escape. "Well, no. Actually, I'm _his_ dad."

"Oh?" Her eyes widened with surprise. "That was your son?"

"Yep."

"And he's walking out with your driver?"

"Mmmm."

"Oh, my … is that a problem?"

"No, not really."

"Has it been going on long?"

"Over a year now."

"Ah." She cocked her head and gave him a penetrating look. "And you're sure you don't mind?"

"No … well, did at first, a bit. Especially since they kept it secret from me for the first six months."

"Oh, dear!" Katherine raised a hand to her face, trying to hide her smile. "Dear old Dad is always the last to know, eh?"

"Apparently."

"So am I correct in guessing you'd just as soon not venture onto that dance floor tonight?"

"Well … might be a bit awkward. Do you mind if we skip it?"

"Not at all, Christopher. They were playing the Lambeth Walk earlier, and I don't think anyone over thirty should even attempt it. It looks like a guaranteed road to rheumatism. I'm afraid I don't go much beyond waltzes and foxtrots."

"Well, just have to find someplace that specialises in waltzes and foxtrots. Another night, though. Not very many places open for dancing on a Sunday."

"That's fine with me. I am starting to get a bit tired. Let's see if we can slip out without them spotting us."

Departing unseen, they found no taxis in front of the hotel. "Too cold to stand about," said Christopher, turning up his coat collar and offering her his arm. "Shall we start walking? There's enough moonlight to see where we're going and with any luck we'll see a taxi soon."

"Katherine," he said, after they had covered a few dark and deserted blocks, "I do want you to meet Andrew sometime. I just thought it would be … awkward for him to run into us unexpectedly like that."

"Oh, I understand, Christopher. It's perfectly fine. There's no reason to rush. Besides -" her eyes twinkled mischievously at him - "I can certainly understand why you wouldn't be too eager to tell him after he'd kept _you_ in the dark for six months."

He smiled in the darkness. "No, it isn't that. I just … would prefer to keep this private for a while. Not that I think my walking out with you would bother him, but …"

Katherine sounded puzzled. "But surely he's accustomed to seeing you step out with women. It's been, what - ten years since you lost your wife?"

"Well … not really. I've had very little social life since … since then."

She stopped, turning to face him in the stillness. "Really? There hasn't been anyone in your life since … in ten years?"

"No one serious."

"Oh," she said in a very quiet voice. "I'm sorry, Christopher. I had no idea. I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"You didn't."

"I'm just … surprised. You're such an attractive man, and so charming, that I naturally assumed …"

Christopher felt a warm glow of pleasure at her words. "Assumed what?"

"Well, that you have many lady friends, of course."

His eyes locked onto hers in the faint light. "Only one," he replied softly. Suddenly feeling that words were a very inadequate tool for expressing his feelings, he leaned closer. She lifted her face to his as he bent toward her.

Their lips had barely touched before the stillness was shattered by the wail of an air-raid siren. They pulled apart.

"We need to take shelter," he said immediately, his quick instincts springing to the fore. "Nothing open near here on a Sunday evening. My house isn't too far. D'you think you can run?"

"Not very well, in these shoes -"

"Try." He took her arm to help hurry her along. Already they could hear the distant hum of bombers.

At Steep Lane, Christopher unlocked the door and ushered her inside, shutting the door before he switched on a light. He took Katherine's coat and hung it on the hall-stand with his own. "Do you want to go out to the shelter?"

"We probably don't need to unless we hear bombs falling, don't you think?" she replied. They both knew that the bombers were likely to fly over Hastings and release their deadly loads on London.

"I agree. Please come in and sit down." He gestured toward the sitting room. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you."

Foyle switched on a lamp and she picked up a framed photograph that stood beneath it. "Is this your son?"

"Yes."

Her brow furrowed as she stared at the picture. "He looks familiar. Was he ever stationed at Lympne?"

"Yes. Last year."

"Hmmm … I'm not sure. The insignia is wrong. The young man I'm thinking of is a pilot officer. Wears a DFC."

Christopher's eyebrows shot up. "That's Andrew. That picture is old. It was taken when he first got his wings." He cocked his head at her. "So you know him."

"Well, I wouldn't say that. I've _seen_ him, yes, but he wouldn't remember me. I've just poured him a few cups of tea, that's all." She set the picture carefully back on the table.

"I'm surprised you didn't recognise him at the hotel earlier."

"Well, the light was dim and they were dancing cheek-to-cheek. I couldn't see much of his face. But I do remember him from the base. Always polite, not self-important like so many pilots. All the men look up to him, Christopher. I remember him talking a lot to the younger pilots, checking up on them, encouraging them. He showed a great deal of compassion when - well, when someone didn't make it back. He's one of those lads the others seem to revolve around. A natural leader."

Christopher felt absurdly proud at her words. He had often wondered how Andrew was regarded by his RAF peers and this precious glimpse into his son's service life was something he knew he'd cherish. "Thank you, Katherine," he said, deeply moved.

"No need to thank me. It's just what I remember."

A little embarrassed by his emotions, Christopher turned away from her for a moment. He switched on the wireless and a soft, slow melody filled the room. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to her and held out his hand. "Perhaps … we might get in some dancing after all?"

She put her hand in his and they moved together as if they had been doing it all their lives. His arm went round her slender waist while her hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. He felt his cheek brush against her smooth dark hair and closed his eyes, the better to savour the softness of her skin and the delicate floral scent of her perfume.

They swayed gently together for a long, long time. Neither spoke. Gradually he drew her closer to him, enjoying the tantalising nearness of her figure brushing lightly against him. Finally he could resist no longer, and drew his head back enough to seek out her mouth.

He kissed her softly at first, until he felt her lips parting beneath his. Delicately, tentatively, his tongue explored hers, the contact making his pulse quicken. When he broke away, he pulled back far enough to look searchingly into her eyes for a long moment. Seeing no reluctance there, he kissed her more deeply, a thrill of excitement coursing through him as he felt her respond.

Her body grew soft and pliant and he let go her hand to put his other arm around her too, pulling her tighter against him. Her hands slid around his neck and he could feel her running her fingers lightly through the short hairs at the nape, sending delightful shivers down his spine. He murmured her name indistinctly against the side of her neck. Her breath caught and she pressed herself to him as he nuzzled the delicate skin just below her earlobe. Emboldened, his kisses grew more fervent, his hands caressing sensuously up and down her back. He had almost forgotten how marvellous it felt to embrace a woman like this. He felt as though he were coming alive again after ten years of hibernation.

A few minutes more and he realised he was on the brink of being overwhelmed by their passion. _Dangerous_ , he thought. _This is too dangerous._ He wondered wildly what she would do if he led her upstairs to his bedroom. The unexpected impulse shocked and thrilled him. _Oh, God, I mustn't. But I want her so badly …_ desperately he tried to push the erotic images from his mind.

Katherine seemed to come to herself at the same time. She pulled back and pushed him away slightly, chest heaving, her eyes soft with desire. "Christopher, please," she gasped. "I'm not ready for this …"

He released her immediately. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I didn't mean to … I mean, I didn't intend for this to happen when I suggested we come here…" He jammed his hands into his pockets and took a deep, steadying breath.

"I know that. I just … didn't expect us to get so … carried away. I … I don't want to feel I've led you on, Christopher." Her cheeks were very pink.

"No, no, of course not! Entirely my fault. I don't want to rush you, Katherine. It's just … it's been a very long time since I've felt ..." he broke off, his voice husky with emotion.

Much later, he wondered how she would have replied if their attention hadn't been distracted by an urgent voice from the wireless. "This is the BBC Home Service bringing you an update on the latest war news. At least twenty American ships have been heavily damaged or destroyed in a surprise Japanese air raid on the United States naval base at Pearl Harbour, Hawaii. Carrier-based Zero fighter planes swept down on America's main naval outpost in the Pacific Ocean shortly after dawn today …"

Both their heads had swung sharply toward the wireless. Foyle moved over to the set and turned up the volume. They listened in stunned silence to the newsreader's description of the attack and its aftermath. "My God," Christopher murmured at last, looking at Katherine. She stared back at him, eyes wide.

"Those poor sailors!" she exclaimed softly. "But … do you realise what this means, Christopher?"

Before he could answer, Christopher heard the front door open. "Dad!" shouted his son's voice. Andrew burst into the sitting room, dragging a breathless Sam by the hand. "Dad! Did you hear the news -" He broke off abruptly when he saw his father wasn't alone. "Oh, I'm sorry …"


	10. Chapter 10: Tea and History

**.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **Part Ten: Tea and History**

An awkward silence fell over the room, broken only by the continued drone of the wireless. Foyle and Katherine looked discomfited. Andrew's eyes widened as he grasped the implications of finding his father in his best suit accompanied by a very attractive woman. Next to him Sam inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with her hand.

Christopher found his voice. "Yes, Andrew, we were just listening to it … Katherine, this is my son Andrew. Andrew, Mrs Neville-West."

"It's nice to meet you," Katherine said softly, nodding stiffly to him. "Hello, Sam." Sam nodded back, for once at a loss for words.

Andrew suddenly realised he was staring at her and dragged his eyes back to his father. "Someone told us they'd sunk the entire Pacific fleet. Is it true?"

"Don't know, Andrew, but it certainly sounds as if they've suffered some serious losses. Surprise raid at dawn, they said. Disaster."

"But, Christopher, America will come into the war now. It changes everything! No more of this neutrality nonsense. At long last we're going to get some real help!" Katherine said emphatically. Her accent was unmistakable. Andrew did a double take and stared at her, eyebrows raised.

Christopher hurriedly interrupted before Andrew could say something tactless about Katherine's loyalties. "Perhaps we could all do with a cup of tea after this news."

"I'll make it, sir." Sam spoke for the first time. "Come show me where the tea is, Andrew?" She tugged him firmly toward the kitchen.

After they had disappeared, Katherine sank onto the sofa and pressed a hand to her cheek. "I am _so_ sorry, Christopher! I know that's the last thing you wanted."

"Don't worry about it. Certainly not your fault." Christopher sank into his customary chair, fidgeting with his necktie. He was thinking that it was a mercy Andrew and Sam hadn't come in a few minutes earlier. They sat listening to the news bulletin in silence.

As soon as the kitchen door had swung shut Andrew exploded. " _Sam_!" he burst out in a stage whisper. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She was filling the kettle at the sink. "I didn't know."

"What do you mean, you didn't know? She _knows_ you!"

"Andrew! Slow down a minute!" She set the kettle on the cooker and turned to face him. "Yes, I've met her. Her little girl went missing last month and your father found her. But I had _no_ idea that they were … Come on, Andrew. Do you really think he'd tell me about something like that? You _know_ what he's like."

Andrew frowned. "But … she's American! Dad doesn't like Americans!"

"Well, it looks as if he likes this one. She's actually a very nice woman."

"What did she mean by that crack about neutrality, anyway?"

"I don't know, but her husband was English. He was killed in the war."

"Really?"

"Yes. He was in the Navy. His ship was sunk. I guess she's on our side in this war." She started rummaging through the kitchen dresser. "Haven't you got a nicer teapot than this?"

"I think so, somewhere …" Poking around in the larder, Andrew found his mother's old Royal Doulton tea service in a box on the top shelf. Sam washed off the dust and arranged the cups and saucers neatly on a tray with the steeping teapot.

"Now be nice!" she implored as he picked up the tray. "I think this may be quite important to your dad. You've always said you wished he'd meet someone and now it seems he has. Don't make this difficult for him, Andrew. Please."

She led the way back into the sitting room. Remembering all the times she'd watched her mother smooth over awkward moments at parish events, she chattered brightly as she poured the tea. Watching her, Christopher realised what she was trying to do and blessed her silently. Thank God for Sam.

The newsreader had finished his broadcast so he switched the wireless off. "Extraordinary," he said, stirring his tea. "Do the Japanese realise what they've taken on, I wonder?"

"The Germans too," added Katherine.

Andrew bristled at the implication behind her words. "I think England's done pretty well for herself up to now."

"Oh, please don't think I'm slighting England! When the history of this war is written someday, I'm quite sure it will say that fascism was defeated because of the courage and sacrifice of the British people who stood against it alone for so long. But you're much too young to remember the last war. You have no idea what the American people can accomplish when they set their minds to something."

"She's right, Andrew," Christopher said. "I was in France last time; I saw what happened after the Americans came in. They can provide the manpower and materiel we need. A nation of more than a hundred million, with vast natural resources and, presumably, the will to fight? Changes the whole picture."

"I don't think we need worry about the will to fight," said Katherine. "Not after today. I don't think there has been a foreign attack on United States soil since 1814. I can't even imagine the impact this is going to have over there."

Sam looked curious. "Who attacked them in 1814?"

Katherine smiled. "The English."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. British troops marched on Washington. They even burned the White House."

"How frightfully rude!"

"Daresay the Americans thought so," Christopher told the girl dryly. "Let's hope they don't hold a grudge."

Andrew was still considering the evening's turn of events. "But what if the Yanks decide to concentrate on Japan and leave Jerry to us? It's the Japs who've just bombed them, not the Germans."

Katherine's eyes widened. "God forbid!"

Andrew studied at her speculatively. "Pardon me, but … have we met before? You look familiar, but I can't think where I've seen you."

"We haven't met properly, but our paths have crossed. At Lympne. I work at the WVS canteen there."

"Of course! I'm sorry, I didn't recognise you out of uniform. And I never realised you were - well - "

"American? No, I wouldn't expect so. There's never much time for conversation at the canteen. We're usually pretty busy. And of course you were always busy talking to your mates."

"How long have you been working at Lympne?"

"Let's see. A year ago this past September. I started not long after I moved to Hastings."

"It's very good of you to volunteer. We aircrew chaps certainly look forward a hot cup of tea after an op."

"Just trying to do my bit like everyone else." Katherine took a sip of tea. Next to her on the sofa, Sam shot him a significant look.

Outside the all-clear rang through the air. Katherine immediately set down her cup and saucer and rose.

"Thank you very much for the tea. It's late; I really ought to be getting home. I don't like being away during a raid. Cecily sometimes wakes up frightened."

"Of course. I'll see you home," said Christopher, rising too. Andrew also got to his feet.

"It was very nice meeting you. I hope we'll meet again some time."

"That would be lovely. Sam, it was good to see you again."

"You, too, Mrs Neville-West. Say hello to Cecily for me."

"I'll do that."

Christopher helped her into her coat, flicked off the lights and guided her out the front door.

* * *

They said little on the walk to her house. It had grown colder, so they went quickly. When they reached her doorstep, Christopher took both her hands in his and they stood looking at each other for a long moment in the moonlight.

Katherine finally broke the silence. "Christopher, I can't apologise enough for putting you in that position. I know how difficult that must have been for you."

"Please don't think about it. It's really quite all right."

"I can't imagine what he thinks of me. He must loathe me."

"What, Andrew? Don't be daft. We certainly caught him off guard, but I think once he'd got over the shock he was fine about it. The truth is he's been after me for years to - well, to get out a bit. And he certainly didn't hate you, Katherine. On the contrary, I think he admired you."

"Me? That's absurd. I'm ancient!"

Christopher smiled. "No, you're not. You're a lovely woman, Katherine, and you look stunning tonight. Believe me, Andrew would notice. He's always had an eye for a pretty girl."

"Well, he has certainly found one in Sam. I'm very impressed with her, Christopher. She handled that awkward situation very adroitly. She seems like a very thoughtful young lady."

"She is. And very loyal. Couldn't have asked for a better driver, really."

She nodded in agreement, and then shivered in the chill December air. "I really ought to get inside now. It's late."

He nodded. "Again soon, Katherine?"

"My turn next. Will you come to dinner on Friday? If you wouldn't mind an evening in?"

"I would like a quiet evening at home with you. Very much." The thought made his heart lighten. She must not be too upset by his conduct in the sitting room.

"I can't promise you quiet, Christopher. Not until I get Cecily to bed, anyway. Is seven too early for you?"

"Not at all. I'll be there."

"Thank you very much for tonight. I had a wonderful time."

"My pleasure, Katherine."

She reached up and rested her hands on his lapels. "Christopher," she whispered, pressing her lips softly to his. He put his arms around her and deepened the kiss, marvelling at the intensity of the feelings she brought out in him. _I want to stay with her like this forever_ , he thought. With difficulty he released her and watched her go inside.


	11. Chapter 11: A Second Chance?

**.**

 **.**

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 **Part Eleven: A Second Chance?**

When he got home Sam was gone, but his son was waiting up for him. "Dad. Sit down." He handed his father a whisky.

Foyle accepted the drink, somewhat surprised. He usually played bartender for Andrew, not the other way round. He sank into his chair, loosening his tie. He'd have preferred to go straight up to bed, but Andrew obviously had other ideas. His son settled into the opposite chair, nursing his own drink. After a long silence, he asked quietly, "Were you never going to tell me about her?"

Foyle sighed and rubbed his brow. "Of course I was, eventually. We've only been out twice, Andrew. I just met her a few weeks ago. It's much too soon to know if anything will come of it."

"It looked pretty serious to me, Dad."

"What makes you say that?"

"The way you were looking at her."

Unable to argue, Foyle said nothing. He sipped his whisky and fidgeted unconsciously with one of his waistcoat buttons.

"Sam says she's a widow."

"Yes. Her husband's ship was lost at sea, summer before last."

"And she has a child?"

"A seven-year-old daughter."

"Why didn't she go back to America after her husband was killed?"

"I asked her that. She said she feels more loyal to England than to America. She's had a difficult time, Andrew. She's lived over here most of her adult life but she admitted that lately she's faced a lot of anti-American prejudice. People being rude to her, shopkeepers refusing to serve her, that sort of thing. I've even seen it myself. It's inexcusable."

"Well, perhaps tonight's news will change that."

"I hope so, for her sake."

"How old is she?"

"Think she's in her late thirties. Why?"

"Just curious. I have to say, Dad, I admire your taste. She's beautiful!"

Foyle smiled wryly. "Trust you for that."

"And she seems quite … intelligent."

"Mmmm. She read history at Cambridge. Took a degree."

"Really? That's unusual."

"She's an unusual woman."

"Well, I don't believe I'd let her get away if I were you, Dad."

"I hadn't intended to."

"Anyway, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about." Andrew took a swallow of his drink and set down his glass.

"Oh? What's that?"

"Looks like I'm going to be transferred."

His father's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"No surprise, really. It's been in the wind for some time. The thing is, my CO seems to think they could use me in night fighter training."

"Not Spitfires?"

"No. Group need more long-range fighters now. Escorts for cross-Channel bombers, that sort of thing. Twin-engine kites like the Blenheim."

"You've flown those?"

"I've taken one up a few times. The Blenheim's all right, but it's not fast enough. But we've got a new plane, the Beaufighter – wizard! She'll go over three hundred miles an hour, range fourteen hundred miles. Lot more firepower than a Spit, too. That's what I'll be doing, training Blenheims and Beaufighters."

"I see. And where - "

"Church Fenton. Near York."

"Yorkshire," repeated the father, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Too far away, he knew, for regular visits home.

His son shrugged and reached for his whisky again. "Can't be as bad as Ross-shire. But you're right, of course, I don't imagine I'll get home very often. Sorry, Dad."

"So am I, but can't be helped. When do you go?"

"Not sure. I don't actually have orders yet. Probably not until the new year. So hopefully I'll get Christmas leave, anyway."

"Well, son. I wish you the best of luck." Finishing his whisky, he rose, stretching. "Quite an evening. Think I'll head up. Goodnight, Andrew."

"'Night, Dad."

* * *

He lay awake for a long time that night, captivated by a curious jumble of emotions. Andrew's announcement was foremost in his thoughts. _He's really leaving home,_ he realised _._ Christopher knew how lucky he'd been to have had his son posted so close to home when he went on active service; many parents went months or even years without seeing their uniformed sons and daughters. Now he, too, was facing that prospect. Of course, he had always known that Andrew would move out someday, but until now that eventuality had remained safely in the future. Now it was suddenly upon him.

Andrew would be gone. Not gone for a month or two at a time, as when he had gone up to Oxford; not gone for stretches of a few weeks, as when he had entered active service on the South Coast. He probably wouldn't be granted enough leave to manage a trip home more than once or twice a year. For the first time, Christopher realised, he would be truly be alone in the house on Steep Lane.

He realised with a sick twist that he must have been dreading this moment for years without knowing it, perhaps ever since Rosalind's death. He had been distracted from his own slow grieving only by Andrew's presence, and his needs – first as a shattered boy in need of love and care, then as a headstrong adolescent requiring firm guidance, and finally as a young man, still turning to his father for advice and encouragement. No more laughing youth cracking jokes over breakfast in the sunny kitchen. No more quiet discussions nursing a whisky in the sitting room after dinner. All over. Even when he did manage to get home, things wouldn't be the same. The unusually close relationship that had marked them as a family of two since the boy was thirteen would be forever altered.

 _Where had the years gone?_ he thought dismally. Memories of Andrew's growing up came flooding back: reading him bedtime stories and tucking him in each night. Taking him to his first football match. Rushing him to hospital with a broken collarbone, souvenir from a fall from a tree. Sitting at the table with him evening after evening, struggling with his maths prep. Helping him cope with the loss of his mother. Listening to him describe the endless series of girls who'd caught his eye. The fierce pride he'd felt upon his acceptance to Oxford, and again later, when he'd come home to tell his father he'd joined the RAF. Andrew had been the emotional centre of his life for ten years. _I'm not ready for this_ , he admitted to himself. _I'm not ready for it all to be over_.

He remembered a remark Katherine had made about Cecily the night he had brought her home: _she's my reason for getting up in the morning. Sometimes, I think, my only reason for living._ The words had resonated deeply with him, knowing as he did the paralysing grief of being widowed. They had been the spark that had first captured his interest in her as a woman, more than just as a figure in a case he was trying to solve.

 _Katherine_. His depression over Andrew's leaving was suddenly overcome by memories of her. Eyes wide with fear as she begged him to find her child; weeping with relief upon Cecily's safe return; blushing with pleasure when he'd asked her to dinner. The tenderness and affection she lavished on her daughter. The animated sparkle in her eyes when she talked, and the flattering attention she paid him when he spoke. The way she gently drew him out, getting him to confide memories and feelings he usually preferred to keep hidden. And most unsettling of all, how right she had felt in his arms tonight, and her passionate response to his kiss.

A new series of images rose unbidden in his mind: Katherine, here in Steep Lane. With Cecily. Cecily living in Andrew's room, bouncing downstairs for breakfast with her blonde braids swinging. Katherine pouring his morning tea, kissing him when he came home from work, sitting with him after dinner. Katherine's dark hair spread over the pillow next to his. Katherine, his wife.

He was so astonished at the unexpected turn his thoughts had taken that he abruptly sat up in bed. _Madness_ , he thought. _This is madness. I've barely known her a month. What am I thinking? Is this just because I'm afraid of being alone?_

 _No. It isn't. I'm falling in love with her_. He shook his head as if to shake the thought from his mind, but it refused to be dislodged. How could it be, after ten years of carefully avoiding every prospect of a woman in his life, that this had happened so quickly? He didn't know, but he could no longer deny his feelings. If he hadn't put his heart in cold storage years ago, he might have recognised the truth before this. Even Andrew had seen it, in the space of a few minutes.

The picture of his future had suddenly changed: instead of years of loneliness, the enchanting possibility of a new family. Katherine, Cecily, and himself. A family.

 _Well, that's a lovely notion_ , he told himself wryly, _but come off it, Foyle! She wouldn't want to marry you, a settled, grumpy widower a decade her senior, with no particular distinction?_

 _Would she?_

 _She seems to like you_ , a voice inside his head whispered. _What was it she called you tonight? Attractive? And … charming?_ And then, there was the way she had surrendered to his embrace …

 _All right, yes, she's attracted to me. But is that enough to make a marriage?_

He forced himself to try to view the situation dispassionately. Yes, he was roughly ten or twelve years older than she, as nearly as he could guess, but that wasn't an insurmountable gap. He wasn't wealthy, but she obviously hadn't married her first husband for money, and his own financial position was quite comfortable, thanks to his high rank in the police force and his frugal nature. He couldn't begin to approach her education, of course, but he had risen to a very respectable position in his own field. He was acutely aware of the social gap between himself and her first husband, but as an American she seemed to be free of much of the class-consciousness that still dominated English society. He had never detected the faintest hint of snobbery in her.

And he could be good to her. Oh, how good he would be to her, given the chance. He could alleviate the soul-killing emptiness of being alone too long. She was much too spirited to wall herself off from life, as he had done. And Cecily … his heart lightened still further at the idea of a child in the house again. How he would enjoy a second chance at fatherhood. He honestly believed he could do a better job this time, having gained both patience and experience with the years. And, of course, he wouldn't be trying to raise her alone. Loving Cecily would be so easy – she had charmed him effortlessly in their first two or three meetings.

But could the child love him? Could she ever come to accept him as a substitute for her adored father? And could Katherine ever love him as a husband?

It was a question he couldn't answer.

He lay back down, thinking hard. He knew he had to proceed slowly. He remembered how far he had been from being ready for a new relationship a year and a half after Rosalind's death. Not that he expected Katherine to hibernate emotionally for anywhere near as long as he had; he doubted it was in her nature. But still, it wouldn't do to rush her. Give her time to allow her feelings grow naturally if they would. Be attentive, be supportive, give her a chance to get to know him better.

And especially, he must keep his physical attraction to her under control. As delightful as tonight's encounter had been, he realised that to push her into further sexual intimacy too quickly would probably doom the relationship. It wasn't seduction he wanted from her, it was marriage.

Marriage. Marriage to Katherine. Could it ever be?

When at last he slept, his dreams were happier and more hopeful than they had been in a long, long time.

 _FINIS_


End file.
